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Bool^^ bij jlaMiott flowi^. 


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Phebe ; or, The Ewings of Killian Hook. i2mo, . . 

A Damsel of the Eighteenth Century, lanio, . . .$100 


Dorothy Delafield. i2mo, i 50 

Fraulein Mina. Illustrated. i6mo, 75 

« 

BEN AND BENTIE SERIES. 

4 vols. Illustrated. i6mo, 40 

SOLD SINGLY IF DESIRED AS FOLLOWS: 

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i» . : 


PHEBE 


The -Ewings of Killian .Hook 



MARY HARRIOTT NORRIS 





NEIV YORK: HUNT EA TON 
CINCINNA TI: CRANSTON STOWE 
1890 








\ I >i " j 

1 1 \ I I 


Copyri^iht, 1S90, by 
hunt EATON, 
New York. 


CONTENTS. 


PART FIRST. 

. CHAPTER 1. PAGE 

Beatrice 5 

CHAPTER IL 

The Drive 14 

CHAPTER III. 

The Northrops 26 

CHAPTER lY. 

Mrs. Praed 37 

. ^ CHAPTER V. 

Ewing Farm 50 

CHAPTER VI. 

An Emergency 62 

CHAPTER VIL 

The Three Letters 71 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A Self-invited Guest 86 

CHAPTER IX. 

Old Ways and New 103 

CHAPTER X. 

A Rival 128 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XL pacie 

Coming to an Understanding 1^2 

CHAPTER Xri. 

The Mortgage 154 


PART SECOND. 

CHAPTER L 

Counter Investigations 165 

CHAPTER II. 

Bishop Martineau 185 

CHAPTER III. 

A Sudden Disappearance 19t 

CHAPTER IV. 

Nicholas Petrovsky 208 

CHAPTER Y. 

The Curate Settles II is Fate 21^ 

CHAPTER VI. 

A Climax 231 

CHAPTER VIL 

The “Notus” • 24G 

' CHAPTER YIIL 

A High Tea 261 

CHAPTER IX 

Confidence 278 

CHAPTER X. • 


Conclusions 


293 


PHEBE; 

OR, 

THE EWINGS OF KILLIAN HOOK. 


PART FIRST. 


CIIAPTEE I. 

BEATRICE. 

It was a damp, warm day in the last week of June. 
The Olyphants had already occupied their cottage 
on the cliffs at Newport for a month. Every thing 
Inside, and outside the elaborate establishment called 
Morning-glory Cottage, with that affectation of sim- 
plicity at present in vogue, was in summer order. 
The piazza floors had been freshly painted a rich, 
dark green. Costly rugs, the predominating color of 
which was red, hugged their glossy surface. Baskets 
of flowering plants and vines hung between the pil- 
lars of porch and piazza. Long green boxes of coleus, 
begonias, and other foliage plants were placed in every 
alcove or opening. The lawn was like velvet. The 
horses had long ago been sent up from New York, 
a'nd all manner of traps and carriages, freshly var- 
nished, newly cushioned, and duly equipped with 


6 


PHEBE. 


grooms, were ready in the stables. ITotliing was want- 
ing now but the season,” wliich gave signs of being 
provokingly late. 

So thought Beatrice Olyphant as she sat on a squjtre 
porch of the second story ; the porch opened from 
her chamber, and was furnished with every luxury 
suitable for a young lady’s sitting-room. Her two 
canaries, Pyramus and Thisbe, were suspended in gilt 
cages from the pale blue ceiling. A dark blue rug 
with a rich maroon border filled the center of the 
floor. A little bamboo table, containing books and 
her work-basket, showed with suspicious orderliness, 
while two or three empty rockers, idly swayed by the 
wind, suggested invisible guests. A hammock swung 
across one of the farther corners was filled by Beatrice 
herself, who lay in it with eyes closed, her white 
skirts rustling back and forth as she lazilj^ rocked to 
and fro, her little foot in a dainty slipper of gray 
kid barely escaping the floor, her plump hands, heav- 
ily laden with rings, clasped above her head. 

The wheels of a carriage grated over the gravel be- 
low. Beatrice sleepily opened her eyes, then closed 
them ; but she was listening. She languidly opened 
them again as Mabel Horthrop, in a clear voice, said : 

“ Drive back for me in an hour, Peter.” ' 

When Mabel, admitted by the butler an instant 
later, glided up the wide staircase, painted in polished 
white and carpeted with the softest old-rose Wilton, 
Beatrice’s face took on an indolent alertness, and she 


BEATRICE. 


slowly rose, walked to the door of her room, and, 
bracing herself against the wall, waited for her guest. 

“ Hello, Beatrice ! sleepy as usual ? I’ve been up 
four hours, and feel as if I could stay awake a whole 
week. Isn’t this a glorious day ? ” 

“ A stupid day ! I haven’t seen a soul. Papa is in 
Hew York. Stocks are tight or sober. Auntie is not 
yet up. I had no appetite for breakfast,” Beatrice 
faintly yawned ; but as her lips closed she added, 
“Yery glad to see you, Mabel. Come out on the 
porch.” 

When they were outside Mabel looked around. 
“ How delicious ! ” 

“It’s overdone,” said Beatrice. “Every thing in 
Hewport is overdone. Every thing and every one 
here is a humbug. I wish we had gone over to Lon- 
don for the season.” 

“ I wouldn’t go to London for tlie season for the 
world ! ” and Mabel closed her lips with determina- 
tion. 

“ Why ? ” Beatrice slowly dilated her full, pale 
gray eyes and looked at her friend with lazy curi- 
osity. 

“Well, we have had too many nondescript English 
people here for me to ever be an ‘ Anglomaniac.’ I 
don’t intend to drop my final letters and talk as 
if I had a cold in my throat, and go mad after an 
elfete aristocracy. I can’t conceive any place nicer 
than Hewport. Why, it is like driving through an 


8 


PIIEBE. 


old-fasliioned flower-garden to come down Bellevue 
Avenue. I kept smelling with all my might. And 
this salt wind — O, it’s lovely ! Has it taken the curl 
out of my hair ? ” and she jDushed her hat back. 

‘‘Ho, it has just put it in. You are a lucky girl to 
have such hair. What do you do to keep it so dry 
and wavy ? ” 

“ That’s an inheritance — one of my few good points. 
I may say my one good point. It is just like Cousin 
Phebe’s.” 

“Dear, dear ! What a name ! Cousin ?hebe ! ” 

“Well, you ought to see Cous-in Phe-be. If you 
did once you would think Phebe the sweetest name 
in the world.” 

Beatrice shook her head deprecatingly. 

“ What do you say to Cousin John ? ” said Mabel, 
laughing. 

“ O, John is one of the old-fiishioned revivals — not 
bad. But have you a Cousin John ? ” 

“ I have.” 

“ Phebe’s brother ? ” 

“He is.” • 

“Well, go on.” 

“I sha’n’t tell you a w^ord about John unless you 
agree to like Phebe and Mabel leaned over the rail- 
ing of the porch, looked off seaward, and smiled pro- 
vokingly to herself. 

“ Come, Mabel, don’t be foolish. Here, take this 
Sleepy Hollow chair, and let’s settle ourselves for a 


BEATRICE. 


y 


good talk. You are tlie only girl in I^ewport yet 
tliat I care a straw aboutv” 

“ Yet ! That’s a compliment. However, I’ll enjoy 
the Sleepy Hollow. She sat clown, tucked the folds 
of her blue and white striped gingham in on either 
side, for the wind lifted her skirt as if it were an um- 
brella. Slie pulled off her gloves, deposited her white 
leghorn, an inextricable but picturesque mass of pink 
ribbons and roses, on the floor, took from her pocket 
a handkerchief on which she was sewing a lace edge, 
and plied her needle demurely. 

Beatrice waited several minutes, and at last, tired 
of the silence, said, resignedly, “ Tell me, then, about 
this Cousin Phebe.” 

Mabel looked up. Her eyes were blue and clear — 
a little cold, but capable of much softness of expres- 
sion. They grew deeper and really tender as she said : 

‘‘ There isn’t very much to tell you. Phebe is a 
Quakeress and an orphan. She lives in the old home- 
stead and manages the old farm ; and I may as well 
add that she is what I suppose you would call an old 
maid. She is thirty years old.” 

“ I should say she was an old maid ! ” ejaculated 
Beatrice. ‘^But what makes her, then, so interest- 
ing?” 

“ What makes any body interesting ? ” asked Mabel, 
laconically — “ Mr. Matthew Swape, for instance.” 

Beatrice frowned slightly and colored. 

“ I think, though, I can give you a few reasons why 


10 


rUEBE. 


Pliebe is interesting. The first and poorest one is, 
she is bewilderinglj beautiful.” 

“Eeallj?” 

“ O, I am not joking ; she is ! She is tall, with a 
full figure- — not stout.” 

Beatrice colored again, for growing stout was her 
one horror. 

“ She has fine reddish-brown hair which curls all 
about her face, although she draws it straight back 
and wears it in a great twist on the top of her head. 
Her curly head is a trial to Cousin Phebe, for she 
is the most ordei’ly soul. She has large, soft, red- 
dish-hazel eyes, with a queer light in them, as if it 
were far within. It giv^es her the loveliest and truest 
expression. You couldn’t help trusting Cousin Phebe. 
I should think the sight of her would drive a dishon- 
est person furious. Then she has the complexion 
which goes with such hair and eyes — neither light nor 
dark, but with a good deal of color. She gets aw- 
fully burnt in the summer, and her hands are a little 
freckled, and O, I forgot ! so is her face. But she is 
too lovely ! And her teeth — they are just as white as 
milk, and as even, and her lips curve over them like a 
bow. And ‘her smile — why, it’s just ravdshing ! I 
would like to see you resist Cousin Phebe.” 

“ How is it that she has never married ? ” 

“ O, that is an exploded querj^ concerning old maids 
nowadays. She hasn’t married because she wouldn’t. 
She has had several offers without it being her fault. 


BEATRICE. 


11 


and buried on a farm all her life, too. But Pliebe’s 
beauty is famous for miles.” 

Beatrice deigned at length to evince a mild interest, 
and, when Mabel paused, said : ‘‘ Do go on. I am 
actually quite reconciled to Cousin Pliebe.” 

“ After all, the best part is to be told. You see, 
my uncle and aunt, Phebe’s father and mother— 
Aunt Sally and Uncle John, we always called them — ■ 
dear old Quakers, born on Long Island, as their par- 
ents were before them — my uncle and aunt died within 
a few hours of each other, royal, old-fashioned mar- 
ried lovers to the end. They gave Phebe her notions 
of lovers, and she says she will never marry till a 
suitor like her father presents himself.” 

“ Is John like Phebe?” interposed Beatrice. 

“ I haven’t come to John yet,” said Mabel, reso- 
lutely. “ When uncle and aunt died they left a farm 
on the north shore of Long Island, with a heavy 
mortgage, and the dearest, queerest old house imagi- 
nable. Phebe did not want to sell the property, but 
she thought she ought to, as she felt incapable of 
managing the farm. But, try as she would, she 
couldn’t get any thing like the price — not much more 
than the mortgage. So, brave girl as she is, she de- 
cided to turn farmer, and she has had a splendid 
success. Why, her stock took the prize at the last fair 
over that of all other competitors.” 

Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. 

“ She must lead a queer life, and I should think the 


12 


PIIEBE. 


exposure, and all that sort of thing, would make her 
coarse and masculine.’’ 

“ Phebe coarse and masculine ! ” Mabel laughed 
outright. 

“ What was John about that he left every thing for 
poor Phebe ? ” 

“ A very sensible question. John had gone to 
Australia to try to make his fortune a year before his 
parents died, and, as Phebe always did the letter- 
writing, she has been able for three years to keep the 
news of uncle and aunt’s death a secret. She thought 
if John knew it he would give up every thing to come 
home and take care of her, and she did not want to 
feel that she had perhaps ruined his prospects for 
life. John has been doing splendidly. Phebe wrote 
in her last letter that through a traveler she has 
learned that John proposes to come home shortly. 
As for his share of the property, he gave that up long 
ago. Girls have such a miserable showing at the best, 
if they are left dependent on their own resources, 
that he agreed with uncle and aunt, if they were taken 
away and Phebe was unmarried, that she was to have 
the farm. Precious little it seemed at first. Durins: 
the last year, though, land in the neighborhood has 
increased greatly in value, and I do not know but that 
Phebe will yet realize a fortune from her property.” 

“ And now tell me about John.” 

I will. But there — I hear a carriage.” Mabel 
leaned over the railing. “ Yes, it is Peter, and I 


BEATRICE. 


13 


must go, for motlier gives a liincli to-day. Jolin will 
keep — ’’ She bent down and kissed Beatrice’s white, 
smooth forehead. “ There comes somebody else.” 
She stopped to take a second view, and presently 
turned to go, just as the butler appeared to announce 
Mr. Matthew Swape. 

Perhaps he is going to ask you to drive,” said 
Mabel. 

And perhaps if he does I will not accept,” said 
Beatrice, with spirit. 

‘‘ O, you wilh! Any body would. I would. It is 
understood that it is not Mr. Sw^ape but his horses, or 
ratlier the wealth that the horses represent. Tliere is 
not a young lady in I^ewport but would be proud to 
drive with Mr. Swape.” 

‘‘Would Phebe?” 

“ O, Phebe ! That is another matter. You and I 
are ordinary mortals, and we would, without — any — 
doubt. 

The two girls walked slowly down-stairs together. 
Beatrice follow^ed Mabel to the door, w’atched lier 
mount into a very high dog-cart, mentally compared 
the coachman with theirs — meanwhile smiling and 
talking — and when Miss Nortlirop finally disappeared 
from sight she turned slowly toward the drawing-room 
to receive Mr. Swape, whose attentions were of such 
an original and nondescript character that even her 
astuteness, on which she prided herself, was at 
fault. 


H 


PUEBE. 


CHAPTEE II. 

THE DKIVE. 

Mr. Swape stood in front of the drawing-room 
mantel as Beatrice entered. 

She was one of those girls whose dnll, sleepy man- 
ner with her own sex is changed into a quiet inten- 
sity witli men. She flattered them in pantomime in 
innumerable ways; slie enjoyed the society of any 
man. Though every woman wondered why, Beatrice 
w^as really a belle. 

Mr. Swape thought that he had never seen quite 
such a pretty girl. Handsome, beautiful — all those 
W'Ords by which we try to express something more 
than mere flesli-and-blood beauty — were terms left out 
of liis dictionary. lie had not the dimmest, most in- 
stinctive sense of their meaning. lie was a great 
lover and appraiser of horses. He lield that the 
vocabulary and laws suitable to them applied equally 
well to women. So he mentally pronounced Beatrice 
a high-stepper ; he deflned her to himself as so many 
hands high ; he gazed nonchalantly at lier throat, the 
soft bloom on her fair cheek, the glint of gold in her 
blonde hair, and said, “ She’s a beauty ! ” exactly as 
he pronounced the eulogy on his mare Haney. 

He \vas not essentially vulgar. His straight- 


THE DRIVE. 


15 


forward honesty of purpose, an uprightness in busi- 
ness wliicli no one could malign, but, above all, a vast 
fortune, procured him hosts of friends in JS^ewport. 

It is true that all the girls called him “ the cracker- 
man ” — that English snobs thought it a pity that lie 
was so plain in address — but the mammas ! It was 
Mr. Swape here and Mr. Swape there ; so that when 
he entered a drawing-room he had an assurance all his 
own — something like that of a spoiled but amiable 
child who is constantly saying, “ Here I am ! ” 

He had this maimer as Beatrice entered. It irri- 
tated lier. She welcomed him a little coldly, but, 
as coldness was becoming to her, lie did not re- 
sent it. Just as long as she did not violate the har- 
monies of her type, like Haney, she could go her own 
gait and be all the prettier for it. 

He sat down on a straight chair, rested his hands on 
either knee, arms a-kimbo, and plunged into a semi- 
confidential talk about his affairs, immensely flattering 
to her. 

Time and again she had thought this confidence the 
prelude to something more tender, but, just as her 
youthful self-consciousness began to master her, Mr. 
Swape would stop his communications, woefully snub 
her if she asked a single question he did not wish to 
answer, and then gossip with her about Hewport peo- 
ple with the avidity of a girl, nevertheless, as he 
did so with every body, and each girl in her set had 
the same experience, and as Beatrice really did monop- 


16 


rilEBE. 


olize liiin, and as slie went on tlie principle that a girl 
cannot have too many strings to her bow she let it all 
pass as “ his way,” as, indeed, every body else did. 

“ Dear little Swape ! ” was the name with which 
Beatrice’s Aunt Emily dabbed her niece’s caller, 
although Mr. Swape was by no means a small man. 
He w^as tall and very thin. His neck w’as long 
and protruding; his head was very flat at the back ; 
his eyes were blue and prominent ; he wore eye- 
glasses witli a gold rim, from which a gold chain dan- 
gled over his cheek ; he was also always fashionably 
dressed, which perhaps goes without saying for every 
one in Newport societ3\ But his clothes did not 
make him look fashionable. They bore the closest 
inspection, and 3^et something was the matter. He 
was undeniably a plain man, and, like many another 
plain, strong man, made a fool of himself by emulat- 
ing people he despised in his heart. 

He had been poor ; he was now rich. He had 
been unknown ; he was now famous for one of the 
vast honest fortunes in the countiy. He had begun 
life in a bakery ; he was now the largest cracker 
manufacturer in the United States. Step by step, 
blunder by blunder, he had scaled the social ladder, 
until, in his own simple waj^, he felt at home evGry- 
where. 

He was, at length, intent on what he considered the 
crowning ambition of a well-spent life. He was in 
search of a wife. He had made up his mind that she 


THE DRIVE. 


17 


was to be foiiEd either in New York or Newport. 
For three years he had pursued his quest, and still, 
although forty five years old, he seemed no nearer the 
end than at the beginning. Like most self-made 
men marrying late in life, Mr. Swape expected this 
wife to cover his own family and social deficiencies, 
and, while having no exclusive tastes of his own, the 
more this imaginary wife should have the better slie 
would please him. 

He had viewed Beatrice from all sides of the ques- 
tion, so to speak, and while he could not find a flaw 
in her from a matrimonial point of view, still — 

The truth was, poor Matthew Swape desired to fall 
in love. But a man or w'oman can no more will to 
fall in love than to fall out of the universe. Try 
as he would, with moonlight walks and midnight 
germans, with rides along Ocean Drive, with cozy 
walks d deux.^ the divine afflatus would not come. 
So he continued to talk on every-day matters in an 
every-day way, and Beatrice listened and agreed, 
only intent to please, and what promised at first to 
be a speedy engagement loitered on in an easy- 
going friendship which did no harm, as she was just 
as far from falling in love as her admirer. 

‘Hfll take you to drive this afternoon ; that is — ” as 
her eyebrows lifted slightly— “ if you have no en- 
gagement. I suppose you would like to try my new 
cross-team. They’re beauties!” 

Would Mr. Swape never, never learn to ask a lady 
2 


18 


PHEBE, 


if slie would give him the pleasure of her company 
for a drive, thought 23oor Beatrice. She contrived to 
say with infinite condescension, 

“ I will go witli you, if you desire.” 

‘^Yery well, you shall have the drive,” was the 
blandly unconscious rejoinder, given in an encour- 
aging tone, as Mr. Swape surveyed admiringly her 
white gown, the acme of simplicity, with its broad 
hem-stitching. The dainty waist, with a lace yoke, 
and lace cuifs terminating the full, high sleeves, 
and finished by a sash of surah, gave her an almost 
childish expression. But, although she was only 
nineteen, she possessed a maturity of figure wdiich, 
had it not been for her fairness, wmuld have made 
her seem very much older. She stood with down- 
cast gaze, a faint smile hovering on her lips over 
her guest’s hopeless democracy, and as she looked 
up with a little humor fiashing from her eyes Mr. 
Swape broke forth enthusiastically : 

“ Y ou are looking very well to-day. YY^u look 
like — like a full-blown lily.” 

“You give dreadful compliments, Mr. Swape.” 
“Well, I mean them all right, anyway. What 
was the matter with that one ? ” 

“ O, nothing;” and she weaved a palm-leaf slowly 
back and forth, as she walked with him to the 
door. 

“O, at what time shall we go this afternoon?”,^ 
“At five, I suppose.” 


THE DRIVE. 


19 


‘‘ All right. I’ll be on hand at five, sharp. Good- 
bye.” 

lie wrung her hand. He felt very near proposing. 
But there was time enou£i:h. 

‘‘Plenty of time! all summer!” he ejaculated to 
himself as he drove away. 

As for Beatrice, she shook her head despairingly 
as the door closed, raised her eyes to the ceiling, and 
heaved a profound sigh. 

lie was rich, “ but — so — so — such a cracker- 
man ! ” 

The mist which had hung over the ocean and crept 
along the edge of the cliffs earlier in the day lifted 
toward noon, leaving the vivid velvety lawns spark- 
ling with dew and making the June roses exhale the 
sweetness of early morning. The day was indeed 
beautiful. A soft summer wind blew from the south. 
The sky was piled wdth creamy mountains of cloud. 
Gardeners were every-where, clipping the hedges for 
which this old city is famous, mowing the already 
closely shaven grass, cutting away exuberant growths 
of ivy, and trying, in short, to render absolutely fault- 
less what, to the casual visitor, seemed already the 
perfection of horticultural art. 

Long before five o’clock came, Beatrice and her 
maid had achieved a triumj^h. Beatrice liked to 
dress for herself, pose for herself, and be beautiful 
for self. It was no tribute to Mr. Swape, there- 
fore, that, a half hour before his arrival, she leisurely 


20 


PHEBE. 


surveyed her finished toilet before the cheval-glass in 
her room, Juliette standing admiringly by. 

“ Gibbs is an artist, truly. I can’t pick a fiaw in 
this gown.” She turned to get a side effect, and 
studied complacently the curving, outlines, well de- 
fined, of her beautiful figure. 

She wore a soft gray crepe-d e-chine dress, falling 
in straight folds to the floor and edged around the 
throat, the bottom of the skirt and bodice with a 
delicate embroidery of gold. A huge, broad-brimmed 
round hat of gray, artistically wreathed with white 
water-lilies, shaded her round, rather pale face, and 
made it look extremely youthful and gentle. A 
round brooch, containing her mother’s miniature 
set in seed-pearls, which clasped her gown at the 
neck, gave the antique effect to her face which she 
had studied to produce. Long gra}" gloves, an immense 
gray lace parasol lined with pink, which was just as 
efficient as blushes, completed a costume which had 
given its owaier hours of thought during her solitary 
spring drives in Central Park. 

In the estimation of that new order in American 
society, the chaperones, Beatrice went about alone too 
freely. But there is a great deal which a motherless 
wealthy girl may do, if she is discreet ; and Beatrice, 
fashionable as she was, was not so fashionable but that 
she took the largest liberty the social law allowed her. 
Although an aunt generally migrated with her to 
city or country, and although she had possessed her- 


THE DRIVE. 


21 


self of tliose two other modern burdens, a French 
maid and a ‘‘ companion,” she was, notwithstanding, 
often alone. AVhen it came to a real matter of choice 
between the maid and the companion, she preferred 
Juliette to Miss Ferkins, for Juliette always agreed 
with her, while Miss Perkins had not been so long 
in a subordinate position but that she once in a while 
spoke her mind. 

“There he comes. Miss!” and Juliette peered 
through the shutters. “ He’s here in fine style.” 

Beatrice looked out too. She critically examined 
the high cart with its canary wheels, and also the 
new horses. The footman who sprang to the ground 
with Delsartian elegance, and even Mr. Swape, met 
her approval, so much do surroundings enhance the 
charms of the most ordinary mortal. 

Then she sat down in a low chair, picked up a 
book, and, when he was announced, replied majestic- 
ally, 

“ Say that I will be ready in a few minutes.” 

She did not read a word, but she kept her wdiite 
lids resolutely drooped over the open volume, Juli- 
ette standing in sphinx-like stillness until a proper 
time should expire. 

Her mistress then slowly sallied forth, as slowly 
descended the grand stair-case, Mr. Swape gazing de- 
votedly at the approaching vision, and when she had 
nearly reached the bottom she said with sweet 
sedateness, 


22 


PHEBK^ 


I am very sorry to have kept you waiting.” 

No matter ! no matter ! plenty of time this after- 
noon. Hope I did not break into a nap.” 

Beatrice mounted into tlie lofty vehicle gracefully, 
raised her parasol with the air of an Egyptian standard- 
bearer, Mr. Swape took his seat beside her with the 
agility of youth, and away they went down the shady 
vista of Narragansett Avenue, then southward 
toward the shore. 

“ Now I suppose you know nearly every one on 
Bellevue, don’t you? But here’s a new house about 
finished — family coming the first of July — the 
Stampneys. Eve? heard of them ? ” 

‘‘No!” 

“ They are very rich people. Stampney made 
money in cotton-seed. Poor as a church-mouse ten 
years ago ; but they’ve come up wonderfully. Been 
to Europe twice ! Yisited Alaska last summer ! 
Building a house, I hear, on West End Avenue. 
Bound to be somebody ! Perhaps you’d like to 
call?” 

Beatrice threw her head back slightly and said lan- 
guidly, “ Perhaps.” 

“Here we are at George Francis Train’s house. 
Changes hands about every summer. Do you see that 
monster place over yonder?” and Mr. Swape turned 
his thumb, covered with a lobster-colored glove, to 
the north. The Sharps have just bought that place 
for three hundred thousand dollars ! ” He trembled 


TllK DRIVE. 


23 


as lie named the sum, and looked at his companion 
impressively. 

“ \yho are they ? ” she asked, wearily. 

They are buckwheat people ! Enormously rich ! 
Clever and good ! Mrs. Sharp doesn’t come on as 
fast as her husband, but she’s trying. In five years 
she’ll understand Newport and New York. She is a 
plain, kind woman, who is just killing herself to please 
Sharp and the girls. Ever hear of the daughters in 
New York?” 

“Never.” 

“ Like to have me introduce you ? ” 

“ Wait a while.” 

“ See that barn farther on ? ” and the thumb em- 
phasized the last house on the forward liorizon, loom- 
ing up gray and frowning and tremendous from a 
pile of rocks. “That’s Rheingold's. Germans, but 
rich. The house looks like a Turkish bazaar or Yan- 
tine’s, inside — I don’t know which. They landed 
forty years ago at Castle Garden. And now see 
where they are ! ” Tlie lobster thumb waved in the 
sky trill mpliantly. 

“ Aren’t any of the old Newport families on Ocean 
Drive?” 

“ O, they are^ mostly on tlie back streets, and very 
much back streets they are ! Crowded out, I sup- 
pose. They growl and frown, but they can’t do any 
thing. You see money is power. There is the Beel 
place. Bed's ranches are spotted all over the West 


24 


- PUEBE, 


and South-west. He was an impecunious Scotchman 
who came to iTcw York eight years ago. Worth ten 
millions to-day! Head of a syndicate. You must 
liave met Miss Jeannette Beel. Great iiorse-woman. 
Pretty, too. She’s a regular beauty ! Ever met 
her?” 

I liave seen lier riding Avitli her groom.” 

‘‘Well, ril bring you together, just as soon as I 
can.” 

“Thanks, but I ‘know so many young ladies in 
Newport now. One must choose.” 

Mr. Swape looked at Beatrice delightedly. He 
never chose. He knew every body. But with one’s 
wife, wliy tliat, of course, was a different matter. 

“ A man ca7i know every body,” said Beatrice, after 
a pause, condescendingly, “but a woman — she gets 
into all kinds of social trouble unless she selects.” 

“Is that so! Well, I’m glad I’m Matthew Swape, 
I pick up somebody new every day.” 

“At last we are away from the houses.” 

“Yes. Like a run?” 

“ If you please. I love fast driving.” 

The horses were put on their mettle. They were 
a fine team. They spun over the splendid road like 
deer-hounds. The wheels crunched cheerfully upon 
the hard eartli. The sun went under a cloud. She 
put her parasol down. 

The tide was coming in with^a good south wind to 
hasten it. The green waves broke upon the rocky 


THE DRIVE. 


25 


shore, sending the spray far inland. The air was 
damp and sweet, and as Beatrice inhaled it, and looked 
far off over tlie sullen, mysterious ocean, she forgot 
Matthew Swape, forgot her fine dress and her ever- 
present self, and suddenly but irresistibly felt the un- 
seen power that made the sea and the land, and held 
her, too, under its control. It was only once in a 
great while that she felt like this, and the impression 
had always been fleeting. All at once Phebe and 
John came into her thought, and for a second they 
seemed more virtuous because they were not rich. 
Glancing at her companion, she said, ‘‘Will you 
turn around now, please ? ” 


26 


PJIEBE. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE NOKTHKOPS. 

When Mabel reached her liome, which was some- 
what removed from the water, as her father was gouty 
and her mother neuralgic, her face lengthened pei’- 
ceptiblj. She was a girl with higli aims and natu- 
rally unselfish nature, but she had a will that had 
never been strengthened by industry, adversity, or 
self-denial. It was strong enough after a fashion, 
altliough it had made only a few weak, spasmodic 
efforts to choose dut}" rather than pleasure. But when 
a girl's duties have all to be planned by herself, and 
when every body in her set calls her amiable or 
lovely, if she does just as the set does, it is not diffi- 
cult to imagine that Mabel generally chose the pleas- 
ure, and that she was, in consequence, a universal 
favorite. 

She had been brought up to consider that older 
people are morally bound to see that younger people 
have a good time. Her mother apologized on those 
rare occasions when she asked some trifling help of this 
daughter. 

She was trained in every way to be strong, grace- 
ful, and beautiful, and she was all this. She really 
had a sweet, sunny disposition that absorbed bright- 


THE XOUTHROrE 


27 


ness and gave it out unsparingly. All her loveliness 
was as spontaneous as that of a flower. She had 
grown up in a favorable soil, and why should she not 
bloom like a June rose? 

In an undeflnable way she believed this herself. 
She knew she was what is called a fortunate girl. She 
had that temperate consciousness so typical of the 
American girl of her particular advantages. She was 
frank to say that she had never missed having a 
sister, and that she did not want one. Even her 
brother, six years younger than she, was conveniently 
ill the background. She liked Guy. He was a nice 
sort of boy, she said, on those rare occasions when she 
mentioned him. But when a boy has his nurse till he 
is ten, and his tutor afterward, and when a girl has 
her maid and her governess, every thing is done for 
each, there are none of those brotherly and sisterly 
ministrations, those little sacriflces, which develop af- 
fection. And children born into households like that 
of the Horthrops live under the same roof with 
their parents, receive the offerings of blind parental 
affection as an unchallenged due, and often grow into 
manhood and womanhood with every single affection 
of tlieir being dormant. They are healthy, beautiful, 
physical beings ; but there is an immobility about their 
features, a coolness in the eye, none of that exquisite 
sensitiveness of expression or perception which for- 
merly in our country distinguished the “lady” or 
“gentleman.” Kather, to-day, that delicate enthu- 


28 


FHEBE. 


siasm over the true, the good, or the beautiful, by 
people like the Northrops, is judged as characteristic 
of clever enough souls whose advantages of wealth, 
travel, or society have undoubtedly been limited. 

Mabel sprang out under the porte-cochere, walked 
thoughtfully up the steps of the broad veranda, look- 
ing cool and inviting with its awnings lazily flapping 
in the wind, stepped into the hall, which was of gen- 
erous dimensions, and gazed all about her. There 
wasn’t even a servant in sight. 

They had occupied the house only two weeks. It 
still seemed new to her. She glanced at the easy 
flight of hard-wood stairs, winding by successive stages 
to the second story ; at the big, cool dining-room, 
where the table was already partly set for the lunch. 
The wind was blowing the long tine cloth back and 
forth. Silas, the butler, was just placing a pot of 
delicate ferns in the center. Her piano stood open in 
the adjoining music-room. The books looked safely 
locked away in the closed cases in the library from 
rousing any one intellectually. The satin-covered 
furniture in the drawing-room had a dignified com- 
pany air. There were vases of flowers every-where, 
arranged by the chamber-maid, who had a genius for 
flowers. There were dainty scarfs and cushions on 
sofas and chairs bought by the dozen at the Woman’s 
Exchange. 

“ This is my home,” thought Mabel, or will be, for 
three months; then we shall go to another just like 


THE XORTIIROPS. 


29 


it at Lenox, then back to JSTew York, and yet — and 
yet, I do not care for one of tliese houses. I just 
wish I could live in a cabin on the Maine coast, 
where I had to take some care of it myself. Then 
perhaps I would know what the love of home is about 
which Cousin Phobe talks.” 

Just here her meditations were interrupted by a 
slight, exceedingly spare figure visible on the second 
landing of the stairs. 

“Miss Mabel, your mother asks will you please 
come to her room.” 

“ Isn’t mamma up yet? ” in a tone of dismay. 

“ She is just dressing, miss.” 

Mabel puckered her lips somewhat contemptuous!}", 
said, “All right, Hannah,” and turned into the li- 
brary. .She threw herself into a chair, and, taking off 
her picturesque hat, fanned herself with it energet- 
ically for a few minutes. Then she composed her 
features, which had worn an irritated look, and slowly 
went up-stairs. 

“ Any thing the matter to-day, mamma ? ” she said, 
coldly, as she entered her mother’s room. “ I thought 
you would be down-stairs by the time I reached 
home.” 

“ O dear, dear ! I have this same old pain in my 
face. I always have it in Hewport, and yet your 
father will make us. come here. I hope I did not 
interrupt you, darling, sending for yon. I merely 
wanted to see you. Do you feel well to-day, dear?” 


80 


PHEBE. 


“I always feel well, thank yon, mamma,” said Ma- 
bel, with the merest hint of asperity. I should think, 
mamma, you would put your foot down that yon 
wouldn’t come to Newport if it makes you suffer so. 
You are no comfort to yourself or any one else. It is 
so depressing, mamma to have you always under the 
weather.” 

“I know it must be, and I can’t forgive myself if it 
casts a shadow over you. I am sure I do try to lift 
every care from you. Youth is the time for gayety. 
Didn’t your maid unpack that trunk for you last 
night ? ” 

Yes, of course, mamma.” 

‘‘You look so flushed that I thought you had been 
trying to do it yourself.” 

“The idea!” said Mabel, disdainfully. Then, 
ashamed as the thought of Pliebe arose, she added, 
“ It would be well if I had to do it myself. I am 
really tired to death, mamma, of doing nothing. 
Don’t you suppose that idleness is what gives you 
neuralgia and papa gout? I believe it is.” 

“ No, no, child, it’s the Newport air.” 

“ Thep why will you come here ? ” 

“ Because, Mabel, your father will have his way. 
I learned long ago never to oppose him.” 

“You have neuralgia^n New York,” said Mabel, 
with insistence. 

“AVhat woman would not, with three houses to 
manage?” and Mrs. Northrop turned her nervous 


THE HOB THE OPS. 


31 


face appealingly to her daughter. I arn sure, Mabel, 
I try to hide from the family when I’m in pain. I 
don’t want my suffering to interfere with their pleas- 
ure. I suppose I ought not to have sent for you. I 
did intend to be dressed and down-stairs by the time 
you got home, but I fell into a heavy sleep, and Han- 
nah wouldn’t waken me.” 

“ She was in great pain all night, miss, and I hadn’t 
the lieart to do so.” 

Mabel glanced at Hannah, who had a gentle but 
determined voice. Tlie maid was such a spare little 
woman, colorless, with a deep hollow in each thin 
cheek, that the young girl could not help comparing 
the frail figure with Mrs. Horthrop’s generous propor- 
tions and her own round, vigorous frame. 

I am glad you did not waken poor mamma, Han- 
nah,” said Mabel, with a touch of feeling at last in her 
voice.* I believe we are all heartless in this house.” 
She kissed her mother’s cheek, but there was no 
warmth in the demonstration. Hannah’s clear hazel 
eyes seemed to vibrate at even this show of affection. 

“ I’ll dress immediately, mamma, and I wont be 
long. If any one comes early I’ll be down in time to 
receive them, so don’t hurry. Hannah, dress mam- 
ma’s hair high, and j^ut those shell side-combs with 
gold mountings in. You looked so well in them at 
the Yan Pelts’ dinner, mamma, that you must wear 
them often and Mabel, now all smiles again, whisked 
out of the room. 


82 


rilEBE. 


“ She is such a sweet girl, llaniiali. If her temper 
does get a little ruffled now and then, she gets over it 
right away; and there is always a cause for it. I 
think she bears my ill-health remarkably ; don’t you ?” 

As to bearing, ma’am, I never thought of that,” 
said the maid, respectfully. “But I should think, 
ma’am, that it’s you that does the bearing. You 
must have had to bear a deal with Miss Mabel before 

ft 

she got brought up.” 

Indeed, I never did, Hannah,” replied the mother, 
eagerly. She was a good child from the beginning. 
Sarah was her nurse then, and always a most excel- 
lent, faithful woman. And Judkins, the governess, 
was invaluable in her way. So I was able to drop all 
care about my daughter till it was time for her to 
come out,” last winter. I may say that Mabel and I 
are just getting acquainted.” 

Hannah shut her lips rather grimly. She was a 
widow. She had been a mother. She saw the cot- 
tage of her short married life, the cradle by the door 
opening into the forest where her husband was a lum- 
berman. She saw the wee occupant of the cradle 
grow into a slim girl of ten, stepping half the day 
about the cottage to help her. She saw the little cot 
where Mary had slept, where she had said her evening 
prayer, and where her last act every night was to put 
her arms around Hannah’s neck and kiss her mother 
over and over. She heard again the whispered 
“ Dear mother,” and felt those loving hugs as if the 


THE XORTHROPS. 


33 


child would strain all the breath out of her little body. 
Hannah had seen no such love in the homes where she 
had been lady’s maid since the death of her husband 
and child ; and she thought, as she stood dressing 
Mrs. Northrop’s hair, that she would not give up her 
memories of love for all the houses in Newport. She 
and her little daughter had borne each other’s bur- 
dens, and how they had loved each other ! 

AVhen Mrs. Northrop was at length dressed she 
was an imposing-looking woman. She reached the 
drawing-room just as the first carriage drove up, and 
when, presently, the last guest arrived and the eight 
ladies invited were all assembled there was certainly 
a bewildering array of toilets and a confusing clatter 
of tongues : 

“ Did you attend the Thomas Sunday-night con- 
certs I ” — Not quite so wicked as that ! ” — “ The lat- 
est fad is the Berkeley Lyceum, where the gymnasts 
take a bath as soon as they finish exercising ” — “ Gave 
a lunch at the Lenox Lyceum on purpose to introduce 
more extensively the Womari’s Exchange ” — So gen- 
erous!” — “Mr. Bussell’s lectures?” — “No, haven't 
heard them ” — “ Italian opera ? ” — “ Yes, I went, but 
Patti — even Patti — is past her prime ” — “ Mr. Prince 
says that the acoustics of the Madison Square Garden 
are horrid ” — “ Said to have signed a ])aj)er that she 
wouldn’t visit her daughter without his lordship’s 
permission” — “ Gone off on his j^acht for their honey- 
moon ” — “Loft her fifty thousand dollars a year and 
3 


S4 


PHEBE. 


tlie house, pictures, and horses” — “Don’t know her?” 
— “ Met Mr. Bancroft driving this morning, and he 
invited me to come to see his roses ” — “ Haven’t read 
a word in a year, but attend three classes and so iiear 
all the news ” — “Met Miss Edwards, and slie is charm- 
ing socially ” — “ I had la grippe tlie very worst way ’’ 
— “ She’s a regular vampire ” — “ Yes, we go to Lenox 
in September.” 

Mabel had done her share of talking and enter- 
taining, and had heard these fragments besides, 
when the doors were thrown open and luncheon 
was announced. 

The lunch was one of those long and elaborate 
ones that would puzzle even an epicure to distin- 
guish from a dinner. 

The room was pleasantly dark. The breeze tem- 
pered the lieat, which had increased as the sun rose 
higher. Every body looked delightfully cool, whether 
she felt so or not. The courses followed one another 
in faultless succession. An icy drink, flavored with 
whisky and imbibed through straws, began the repast 
and was intended to unlock conversation, but that had 
already proved unnecessary. -A Eoman punch broke 
the monotony of the preliminary courses. Cham- 
pagne, sparkling and cold, served as an additional ap- 
petizer ; and, finally, beautiful little books of ice-cream, 
inlaid with quotations from the poets, gave an excuse 
for a faint literary aroma to add to otherwise very 
material conversation. 


THE NORTHROPS. 


85 


It was five o’clock before the ladies dispersed, 
some to drive before going home to dress for din- 
ner at half-past seven, others to lie down and rest 
their weary heads, if not weary tongues, before 
finishing a day that would close for them only long 
after midnight. 

Mabel heaved a sigh of relief as the last carriage 
rolled away. Her mother sank into a huge bamboo 
rocker, clasped her head in both hands, and moaned, 
“ I feel as though I should go crazy ! ” and then rang 
for Hannah. 

Hannah slowly appeared. 

“ Open my bed, Hannah, and get a bath ready 
for me. I did not eat a morsel, bu^ took some 
champagne to stiffen my nerves a little. It has 
all ffone to my head, and — O — O ! Make haste, 
Hannah!” 

“Yes, Mrs. Horthrop.” 

Mabel looked at the maid a little inquisitively as 
she turned to go. There was something so comfort- 
able in her presence. She noticed a square silver 
cross hanging by a purple ribbon in Hannah’s button- 
hole. She had often seen it there before. “Some 
lover’s keepsake, I suppose,” she thought. But Han- 
nah did not look like a girl to have lovers. “ I must 
ask her what it means some time,” she said, idly, to 
herself. 

After Mrs. Horthrop had gone up-stairs her daugli- 
ter picked up the first book at band. She went out 


36 


PHEBE. 


to tlie veranda, adjusted herself in a hammock, and 
opened the volume. It proved to be Deaconesses in 
Europe and their Lessons for America^ and on the 
tlj-leaf was written ; “To dear Mabel, with the love 
of Phebe Ewing.” ^ 


MRS. PH A ED, 


S7 


CHAPTER lY. 

MRS. PRAED. 

Mabel glanced lazily through the book. Here 
and there she came upon sentences faintly scored. 
They seemed like Phebe’s footsteps. The volume 
looked dull on the whole, but it represented solid 
reading, and one of the ‘good resolutions she was 
always making and never keeping was to pursue a 
course of substantial reading. 

Presently this passage met her eye : 

“ I used often to see Sister Myrtha, who was the 
head-sister, hastening hither and thither on her errands 
of mercy. In her plain black dress and round shoulder- 
cape to match, and broad white collar and white cap, 
she was a pleasant and attractive figure. She was 
always happy and contented, i-eady to answer the 
many questions with which I plied her in my desire 
to look through the eyes of a deaconess, and to obtain 
her views of the office to which she belonged. She 
had a great love for her work, and believed that she 
was doing service for Christ in a true missionary 
field. Her simple uniform was a distinguishing mark 
that insured her respect and attention wherever she 
went, and she regarded it as a garb of honor that 
marked her as belonging to the daughters of the 


38 


PEEBE. 


great King. You could not call such a life an austere 
or unnatural one. It was too tliorouglilj filled with 
thoughts of love to others to be either morbid or in- 
tros [lective.” 

She closed the book, and her eyes too. A subdued, 
serious expression hovered about her mouth. ^‘That 
is not like me,” she thought. Then her fancy caught 
at the name, ‘‘ daughters of the great King.” ‘‘ Such 
a title ought to satisfy even Kewport ambition,” she 
went on to herself ; and then — ‘‘ I wish I were the 
daughter of a great king, or a deaconess, or some- 
thing or somebody with an aim in life, instead of 
Mabel Korthrop, only daughter of a wealthy railway 
president, with great expectations and no husband in 
view. Heigh-ho ! Life is stupid. I\'e seen it all. 
And I’m tired and sick to death of it ! ” 

Then she posed — as what girl does not these days? 
— d la Marie Bashkirtseff, and elaborated an analysis 
of her own greatness and the insipidity of her friends, 
and wondered, in parenthesis, if the lunch did go off 
well, and if she looked as hot and bored as she felt. 

Notwithstanding this pot-pourri of ideas, there 
could not have been a more composed face than hers 
when she at length pulled herself together, prepara- 
tory to leaving the hammock. She then peeped into 
the book again and reread the passage, and when she 
had done so she looked up to see Hannah standing at 
a door with a far-away, uplifted look, and apparently 
unmindful of another’s presence. 


MRS. PR A ED. 


89 


“ Come here, Hannah,” cried Mabel. 

Hannah approaclied. She had changed her dress, 
but tlie purple ribbon with its little silver cross was 
still there. 

“For whom are you wearing that keepsake, 
Hannah ? ” said the young girl, a little archly. 

“ For my King, ma’am ! ” she quickly replied with 
pride. 

“ For your king, here in America?” 

“ My King is Lord of all.” 

She wondered if Hannah were queer, and said 
authoritatively, What do you mean, Hannah ? ” 

She had no notion of allowing any familiarities 
on the part of a maid, whatever questions she might 
choose to ask. 

“ I mean just the Lord Jesus Christ. He’s my 
King. I wear the cross to show that I’m working for 
him. And the purple ribbon means royalty. Those 
who wear this cross are called Daughters of the 
King, for we are all one in Christ Jesus, you know, 
ma’am. I used to work for wages. Miss Mabel ; now 
I do every thing for my King. When 1 get tired or 
feel sick, it’s wonderful how I can keep up by saying, 
‘ In His Kame.’ ” 

You are a good girl, Hannah,” said Mabel, pat- 
ronizingly. “ Kow go.” 

She obeyed, and her young mistress followed her 
retreating figure with an uneasy gaze. Somehow 
its thinness and the pale, hollow cheek had a 


40 


PIIEBE. 


singular faculty for goading her to thought — Yes, 
just goading me !” she repeated to herself, intent on 
believing at this minute now that her life was by no 
means the bed of roses one might suppose ; and then 
she felt impelled to read the passage again. 

“So this was wliat Myrtha was about, I suppose,’’ 
said Mabel, only half consciously. “ She was of 
Hannah’s class. Poor souls ? What could life be to 
them without some such poetical fancy.” Strangely 
enough, tlie book fell open, at this juncture, at the 
following sentences : 

“ The social status of the English deaconesses is, as 
a rule, markedly different from that of the German 
deaconesses. Ilei’e ladies of rank and inherited social 
traditions, of refinement, of accomplishments, and of 
education, many of them women of means, defraying 
their entire expenses and often those of their poorer 
sisters, are largely represented among the deaconesses.” 

Mabel compressed her lips, rose to her feet with 
unnecessary energy, walked into the library, laid the 
book forcibly upon the table, and rang for lights. 

Her self-complacency had been troubled. She was 
not a solitary mortal striving after superhuman ideals, 
and to be commended for her aspirations. She was an 
idle, frivolous girl — nothing more. She did not en- 
joy the picture forced upon her, and so, the first per- 
son whom she encountered being Guy, and Guy 
happening to tread at this unhappy juncture on her 
toe, she exclaimed, “ You arc always in the way. 


JfJfiS. Pit A ED. 


41 


Guj,*’ iind swept past liiin to the piano. But then, 
as her mother said, Mabel never lost her temper with- 
out a cause. 

The next morning was clear, breezy, and cool. 
She had one undeniable virtue in a young person. 
She was an early riser. After a seven-o’clock break- 
fast with Guy — for, like most Kewport men, Mr. 
Northrop was absent more than half the time — she 
summoned Miss Judkins, and they started out for an 
indefinite walk. 

There is no lovelier place in the world for morning 
walks than Newport. Ancient trees shade many of 
the streets. The humblest homes vie with their lord- 
liest neighbor in the smoothness of their lawns, the 
luxuriance of their ivies, the wealth of their flowers. 
The quaint old city by the sea is literally a great 
flower-garden. The ‘‘ Bound Tower,” embowered in 
shade, retains the secret of its existence from genera- 
tion to generation. The venerable cemeteries carry 
one back with delightful frequency to dates of two 
hundred years ago. Bevolutionary names still cling 
to the thoroughfares — real towns-people walk with 
stately and often scornful dignity when the gayly 
painted drags, the jaunty dog-carts, the solemnly re- 
spectable broughams, and the luxurious victorias of 
later comers throng Bellevue Avenue — the artery of 
the city. Old residents and church people ” still 
cling to Trinity, safely embargoed by the huge sar- 
cophagi of ancient dames and their consorts, and 


42 


PIIEBE. 


recalling colonial plutocracy, witli its slender spire 
oi’nameiited with the crown of tlie Georges, its 
sounding-hoard spreading like a great white-winged 
sea-gull over the minister elevated perilously high in 
his lofty pulpit. 

Mabel knew all the landmarks by heart ; her 
healthy love of occasional solitude, and her respect 
for people, fortunes, and places on which time had 
set the mark of stability, led her often to seek the 
home of a distant connection of her father. This old 
lady was a more tangible proof to the young giid of 
their claims to exclusiveness and “old family” than 
any other witness in furniture, china, or genealogical 
record which diligent effort had enabled her to unearth. 

It was curious with what unanimity of opinion the 
new-comers — whose palatial dwellings flanked the 
sightliest elevations, or commanded the best sea-views, 
or nestled in the shadiest, greenest lawns — considered 
themselves the center and life of Newport, the legiti- 
mate inheritors of its memories, its traditions, and its 
aristocracy, and how the reticent, if impoverished, de- 
scendants of those whose names epitomized the celeb- 
rity of this most famous of American summer resorts 
looked on at the display, the extravagance, the beauty, 
and the fascination of the summer people, and, like 
Esau, felt robbed of their birthright. But from 
Horace’s day to ours the refrain still sounds : “ The 
wheel of fate, in turning, never ceases.” Old fami- 
lies degenerate; new families become refined. The 


MRS. PR A ED. 


. 43 


question of old and new is one of a day — of two gen- 
erations, at tlie best, in tliis country — and probably 
never, till we are inhabitants of that country where 
“ a thousand years are as a day,’’ and where the 
redeemed will be members of one family in Christ 
Jesus, will this foolish war of precedence cease. At 
all events it was a vital issue with Mabel and Bea- 
trice, and it was with a feeling of solid comfort that 
Miss Northrop opened “Cousin Emily’s” gate to 
inhale from that dignified personage a real breath of 
“ old Newport aristocracy.” 

The maid averred that “ Cousin Emily ” was at 
home in response to Mabel’s formal inquiry; for, 
though the Jiouse was in an isolated neighborhood and 
wore a look of venerable retirement, it was packed 
with punctilios which marked the atmosphere the 
minute the front door was open. 

Leaving Miss Judkins in the liall, the young lady 
entered the old-fashioned library, when she was met 
by Mrs. Praed, or “ Cousin Emily.’’ The Northrops 
cousined every connection worth recognizing to the 
fourth generation ; and Mrs. Praed was Mabel’s third 
cousin and Phebe her second cousin. Mabel had long 
ago suspected that the farther removed the tie the 
deeper the affection. At all events, it was easy to see, 
when Mrs. Praed entered her library, that she truly 
loved her beautiful and sprightly kinswoman, and 
that the girl had a genuine admiration for the stately 
old lady. 


44 


PHEBE. 


Their <?reetini]; was most decorous. Mrs. Praed lield 
lier cheek for Mabel to kiss, which her relative did with 
warmth. They clung to each otlier’s hand, giving 
two or three slight squeezes separated by proper inter- 
vals of time ; after which Mrs. Praed said, solicitously, 
‘‘ Sit down, my dear.” 

‘‘I have been much occupied this morning,” she 
continued, plunging, like most old ladies, into the 
heart of the last thing that had engaged her attention. 
‘‘It is a cool day” — carefully placing her cap-strings 
down either shoulder lest she should lean against 
them and rumple them — “and I had Matilda lay out 
‘all my winter things, and we were putting them up 
in pepper and camphor — tschew ! — excuse me — 
tschew ! — the pepper must have gotten up my nose — 
when you came in.” 

She took from her pocket a squarely folded very fine 
handkerchief, opened it, seized it by the exact center, 
shook the folds into place, then, with majestic dignity, 
wiped the offending member. Afterward she held 
the 'handkerchief clasped in her two small wrinkled 
hands as they lay crossed in her lap. 

“I am afraid I have interrupted your morning, 
Cousin Emily.” 

‘'IS’o, no! I am glad you came in. Matilda can 
finish.” 

“ "Why don’t you use camphorized tar. Cousin Em- 
ily ? They say it is proof against moth.” 

“ I should consider it an insult to my neighbors. 


MBS. PBAEB. 


45 


Mrs. Moxon has used it next door ; she's a new-comer — 
from Brooklyn, I believe — and yon would have 
thought 'sve had the plague or small-pox here for a 
month. Such an odor! I perfumed the house from 
top to bottom with lavender-water every day. Ko, 
the cld way of keeping away moth is good enough.” 

“ Don’t camphor and pepper fade your furs ? ” 

“ My sables have been put up in camphor and pep- 
])er these forty years, and you know how dark they 
are.” 

Her fine head gave a slight toss as she mentioned 
her furs, for these sables wwe her pride. They were 
bought in St. Petersburg when she was a bride; they 
were elegant enough still to keep the girl awake plan- 
ning to coax Cousin Emily to leave them to her. 

‘‘ What an elegant old table of teak- wood. Cousin 
Emily,” said Mabel, for the live hundredth time. 

“Yes; my uncle. Admiral Stephenson, brought it 
out from India seventy years ago. I can’t remember 
when we did not have that table.” 

“ We have one, too. Mamma fpund it at Cypher’s ; 
but I take no comfort in it, because it was somebody’s 
else, you know, first.” 

“O yes; I believe it is the fashion in Hew York 
to furnish whole houses with other people’s goods. 
But, dear me ! I would just as soon buy a second- 
hand mattress as a second-hand table— even of teak- 
wood.” 

“ But there are a great many things that have to be 


46 


PHEBE 


second-liand, you know, Cousin Emily — crown jewels, 
for instance.” 

“ Ah ! but they are kept in the family.” 

“ 1^0,” said Mabel, positively ; ‘‘ I have a friend 
who wears a ring that once belonged to Eugenie.” 

“ Did the empress give it to her ? ” inquired Mrs. 
Praed, impressively. 

“ My, no ! she bought it ! But she is just as proud of 
her ability to buy it as if Eugenie had given it to her.” 

“ AYell, well ! I can’t understand it ; ” and the gray 
head shook mournfully. “ Money has vulgarized 
every thing — even i^ewport. 

They sat in solemn stillness after this last statement. 
It was one that Mrs. Praed uttered in substance every 
time Mabel came to see her. She did it as a prophet 
might have spoken his denunciations. 

The girl’s calm blue eyes dwelt admiringly on the 
straight old lady, whose black dress of finest cashmere 
fell in full folds from her spare waist. An oval 
brooch, containing her own and her husband’s hair 
twined together when they were young, fastened the 
spotless ruffle at her throat ; and the immaculate cap ! 
its snowy crest trembled as she swayed slightly to and 
fro. Her little hand kept up a noiseless tattooing on 
the table. 

Mabel, by this time, felt eminently, delightfully 
respectable. It was precisely for this peculiar aesthetic 
state of mind that she had called ; it was therefore 
time for her to leave. 


MRS. PRAED. 


47 


‘‘I must be going, dear Cousin Emily.” 

“ So soon ! But you haven’t told me any of the 
news ; I go out so little that I really quite depend on 
you in the summer. Have your neighbors arrived 
yet?” 

“What, the Merrills? Yes; but you don’t want 
to hear about them, they are nouveaitx richest 

“ I know that ! I like to hear of their latest caper, 
though ; it serves to amuse me, even if it does shock 
me. AVhen did they come ? ” 

“Yesterday. Like all the rest of the Hew York 
caravansary, they brought an outfit for an ark — ten 
servants, five carriages, nine horses, a yacht, two 
bicycles, and a tricycle. What do you think. Cousin 
Emily ? Grace Merrill is going to bicycle in a dual 
skirt!” 

“ What’s that \ ” 

“ Why, a dress made in two halves ; then, when 
she is bicycling, her legs are j)erfectly unham- 
pered.” 

“Hear, dear! Who was Mrs. Merrill, anyway, 
Mabel ? ” 

“ She was a Jones. Her cards are engraved Mrs. 
Jones-Merrill. Very swell ! ” 

Mrs. Praed unbent and laughed heartily. 

“ And your friend Beatrice. She rather pleased 
me. I hope she won’t marry that Mr. Swape. Do 
you think she will ? ” and Mrs. Praed’s chin became 
double and her lips curled. 


48 


PHEBE. 


“ How would you like to have me marry him, 
Cousin Emily ? ” 

“ You ? I wouldn’t own you ! ” 

“ Why, cousin, I would give you a victoria and 
ponies, all your own, if I married Mr. Matthew 
Swape.” 

I wouldn’t take them from that quarter ; so don’t 
sacrihce yourself.” 

“I shall not be asked to. Beatrice fills his eye 
and eye-glass too. He doesn’t love her. He has 
inventoried her charms thoroughly, and, if no one 
.else comes along before the end of the summer, I 
think she will be selected. He’s awfully, awfully 
rich. Cousin Emily. Beatrice has counted the cost, 
and has decided to accept, if she has the opportunity.” 

“ I hope she will not get a chance. That’s what I 
hope. I don’t know what the young girls are com- 
ing to ; they are getting too mercenary to live. Why, 
in my day, if Mr. Swape had packed Bellevue Avenue 
with carriages from Truro Park to the ocean, and 
had flanked the whole cliff with palaces, he couldn’t 
have gotten into society here.” 

O cousin, cousin, you have forgotten. I’ll say 
one thing, too, for him — he has made his fortune 
honestly.” 

“ I suppose the devil must have his due,” said Mrs. 
Praed, grimly. 

By this time Mabel was half-way down the steps 
of the piazza. 


/ 


MBS. FBAED. 


49 


Good-bye! 0-1 the rartliingales arrived last 
night.” 

‘‘ Come back and tell me about them.” 

‘‘ I can’t, really, to-day ; but I’ll be in soon again 
with a bagful of news.” 

She sprang up the steps again, again kissed Mrs. 
Praed’s cheek ; their hands met once more in the 
series of squeezes, then she rejoined Miss Judkins, 
who had been wearily standing by the gate under a 
white pongee parasol, and she walked briskly away 

with the governess. 

4 


50 ^ 


rilEBE. 


CHAPTER Y; 

EWmG FARM. 

PiiEBi: Ew^'ing is iny heroine ; at least she is as 
n:iich the lieroine as one can be in a book that is in- 
tended to luave neitlier hero nor lieroine. Her brother 
John, who is still in Australia at this point in the 
story, is a possible hero ; but Mr. Swape is also. Doubt- 
less before the narrative is finished some readers will 
prefer Beatrice or Mabel or the curate. x\nd if they 
do it is just as well, as the tale is for inany minds. 
^Yither its truth nor its fiction will seem strange or 
unnatural to any one wlio is observant in the year of 
our Lord 18 h 0 . 

It is wonderful how full of activity every house is ; 
with what intense convictions or aspirations each small 
communit}^ thrills ; that a vast city like New York is 
but the aggregate of numberless individual interests, 
and that these represent the same kind of love or hate, 
ambition or apathy, duplicity or honesty, high living 
or sordid existence, as do like interests in the isolated 
outposts on the frontier. 

Y^hile Mabel and Beatrice were idly speculating 
whether they were to fill some conspicuous chapter 
in social history, and while they were living altogether 
like creatures of to-day, south of them, on the north 


EWING FARM. 


51 


shore of Long Island, Pliebe Ewing was brimful of 
the thought of what a tremendous thing existence is> 
and happy in the monotonous round of her daily 
activities. 

She was not a woman with a career — at least she 
had not thus dubbed her responsibilities — but she had 
an avocation, and she was clear-sighted enough to 
know that the avocation, though not her vocation, was 
a duty, and something, therefore, to be faithfully and 
earnestly performed. 

She was rather singularly situated. The old home- 
stead of which she was mistress and sole occupant 
had been left to her over three years before, together 
with a farm of ninety acres. 

Her first thought, when orphaned, was to sell the 
property and complete an education which had been 
vei-y much interrupted. The sale hung fire, so to 
speak, and Phebe, in her secret soul, was glad. After 
the first shock of grief and terrible loneliness had 
passed, the familiar rooms took on a new aspect ; they 
were foi’ever occupied by sweet memories, and the 
charm of a quiet life now operated on her to live in 
the past, in thought, while full of the activity of the 
present. 

She had therefore withdrawn the farm from the 
real estate market, and on the June day on which you 
meet her, as far as she had any thought of the future 
it was connected with when John should come home. 

It is twilight of the very day when Mabel had 


52 


rUEBE. 


satisfied her sense of her own importance. The tide is 
in and vibrating at tlie full among the low rocks flank- 
ing the four or five acres of fine lawn sloping upward 
toward Phebe’s house. The air is so clear that the 
sound of distant bells on the main-land can be dis- 
tinctly heard. The smell of freshly cut grass .burdens 
the atmosphere with sweetness. A clump of aged 
elms on a knoll near the house seems full of robins, 
chaflering one moment and trilling an evening song 
the next. The front door, opening on a square cov- 
ered porch, is ajar. The porch has seats built in on 
either side — slightly leaning forward like the back of 
a venerable man, but good for many burdens still. 
The climbing honeysuckle is in the height of its 
white and yellow bloom. 

Let us enter the house, for its exterior, still encased 
with the shingles extending from ground to roof, and 
nearly as old as the century, its dormer windows, its 
half moons in the gables and over the front door, 
filled with tiny panes of glass, suggest two genera- 
tions ago, and some ways of living and thinking only 
too rapidly becoming things of the past in our quickly 
changing country. 

The wide, low central hall is covered with oil-cloth. 
The stairs are carpeted with ingrain, worn smooth 
with the treading of years, and visibly carefully 
darned in places. On the left opens a square, low- 
ceiled room, its small, many-paned windows draped 
with white curtains as still as the world outside, for 


EWIKG FARM. 


53 


not a breath of air is stirring. Opposite the door is a 
deep, old-fashioned fire-place, filled with fragrant 
branches of hemlock. On either side of the fire-place 
is a tall jar of daisies and roses. The furniture is 
hair-cloth. The tidies are numerous and of ancient 
design. There is a shallow basket on the center-table 
filled with ambrotypes and daguerreotypes of the 
Ewings and the Killians for fifty years — Phebe’s 
])ride. There are some modern books also on the 
table. On the wall are poor but heavily framed 
paintings of Phebe's grandfather and grandmother 
Killian, done in oil by one of those wandering artists 
who frequented American homes before aesthetics and 
the higher culture made the national taste fastidious. 
There are also really finely painted portraits of her 
father and mother when they were young. On the 
high, exquisitely carved mantel, the wonder of the 
neighborhood when it was built, and known as the 
“ Killian Extravagance,” is one smart modern thing. 
It is a silver frame in fine filigree work containing a 
photograph of Mabel looking very much alive, ex- 
ceedingly pretty, and supremely complacent in an 
evening dress, and holding a feather fan at the back 
of her head, evidently for 'the sole purpose of show- 
ing the fine curve of her arm. In one corner 

o 

of this parlor there is a very modern-looking upright 
piano. 

On the other side of the hall is the sitting-room — 
the “living room” — and here Phebe seems every- 


54 


PllEBE. 


where. There is a wood-fire smoldering on the deep 
hearth. There are low open book-cases lining the 
walls, with the oddest mixture of books, but covering 
a wide range of reading, for the Ewings and Killians 
have been lovers of books for three generations. 
Phebe’s case, which she has been supplying for five 
years from the yield of an acre, makes no mean show- 
ing. The center-table has a Turkish cover from Con- 
stantinople, brought as a gift by some traveled rela- 
tive, and looking incongruously gay. There is one 
large rocker with a “ crazy-quilt ” cushion, and another 
leather-covered arm-chair worn shiny with age. There 
is a straight-backed Shaker rocker, and, in fact, not 
many other seats in this room than rocking-chairs of 
all shapes and ages, the most honored being a rush- 
bottomed wooden one, rejuvenated with paint from 
time to time and known as ‘‘ grandmother’s chair.” 
There are two embroidered mottoes in rustic frames 
on the wall, one the time-worn one, “ God bless our 
home,” and the other, Be not forgetful to entertain 
strangers : for thereby some have entertained angels 
unawares.” Phebe’s w’ork-basket, standing on a pi’e- 
cariously narrow window-ledge, is full of table-linen 
to be darned. 

And off this sitting-room opens the dining-room, 
with a grimly respectable, immense sideboard pre- 
senting a fair array of old silver. Beyond the dining- 
room follows a curious series of pantries and kitchens 
and wood-houses, each hard to keep clean because of 


EWING FARM. 


55 

the wear and tear of time, but presenting, neverthe- 
less, the most immaculate order. 

Then, back of the sitting-room is that curious relic 
of old houses, a ground-floor bedroom, big and shady, 
and full of queer furniture, its two windows only 
three feet from the ground, and looking out on a 
grove of pines which are forever sighing like an echo 
of the sea. 

Let us go up-stairs, or, rather, let us go up and 
down stairs at once, for each room above is on a dif- 
ferent level and gives one a charming sense of mystery 
and uncertainty. AYe will enter Phebe’s chamber. 

It is over the parlor, and its three windows, afford 
a fine view of the Sound. The water comes up to 
within a few feet of the end window, because of a sud- 
den bend in the shore ; Avhen Phebe lies in bed nights 
she can hear it lapping the beach, and she dearly 
loves its murmur. The ceiling is so low that John’s 
head barely escapes it. The old rosewood bed, with 
its ornately carved posts tapering to a point, just fits 
in between floor and ceiling, and its capacious white- 
ness terminates in a voluminous valance. This room 
has all the modern dain*ty appointments. On the 
walls are a photograph of a Guido Peni “ Madonna,” 
another of Palma Yecchio’s “ Santa Barbara,” and one 
of Mrs. Praed, whose face and form seem to exactly 
fit their surrounding^. The room was Mrs. Ewing’s, 
and Pliebe’s was next, but lower, the communicating 
door opening abruptly on a short flight of steps. 


56 


rilEBE, 


Pliebe had taken this front chamber when she was 

left alone, and her own room was kept in readiness for 

# 

John, if he should come suddenly at any time. 

But where is Phebe ? 

Let- us go through the hall out on the back porch. 
Perhaps she is there. Yes, she is — engaged in j^et- 
ting one stray cat while trying to coax another to 
come to her. She is down on her knees, her white 
dress carefully tucked up, and a bunch of pink roses 
slipped in a button-hole near her throat. The white 
and gray cat, bolder than its companion, has at length 
gained courage to taste the sweetness of her caresses, 
and they must be delightful, for it is arching its 
back, elevating its tail anon high in tlie air while 
curveting at lier side, rubbing its head against her 
knee, but purring faintly, for it evidently has bron- 
chial trouble. Pretty soon, it springs on her lap, 
reaches to her face and rubs its head against her chin. 
Phebe likes it, and holds the cat there, while trying 
with extended hand and the most insinuating tones 
to persuade the other to approach. But the white 
and gray cannot stand encroachments on preempted 
property, and it jumps to the ground, executes a flank 
movement, and stares dreadfully, with all a cat’s 
stony stare, at its companion, who advances a^ step, 
utters a mournful “ meow,” glances timidly at the 
present possessor of Phebe’s good graces, then at her, 
^then at the white and gray again, and, concluding 
that it has no rights, having no communistic terid- 


EWING FARM. 


b7 

encies, sits down stplidlj, its head turned from tempta- 
tion, its tail curled resignedly around its side. 

“ O, you selfish, selfish thing ! ’’ says Phebe ; but 
she strokes the white and gray, and is just about plii- 
losopliizing on the selfishness of all creation when she 
suddenly becomes conscious of a presence and rises 
instantly with quiet dignity. 

Dignity may more fitly express Phebe than any 
other one word, although she has never analyzed her 
power at once to attract and keep people at a respect- 
ful distance. 

‘‘Do you want any thing, ISTicholas?” 

“ I came to see about the ten-acre lot of rye. Tt 
will need cutting this week.” 

‘•‘ I ’went over to look at it this morning. If the 
weather keeps fine, it would better be cut on Thurs- 
day. It is unusually forward this summer. It is a 
fine field, Nicholas.” 

“None finer anywhere around. Miss Ewing.” 

She glanced briefiy at Nicholas Petrovsky. She 
was proud of her rye, but she knew that the Hal- 
stead crop was taller and fuller-eared. 

“ My soil can be made to yield more and fuller 
grain still. However, I am satisfied for this year. 
If I tell you nothing to .the contrary, cut the rye on 
Thursday.” 

The farmer still lingered. 

“ What is it, Nicholas ? ” She now turned squarely 
and looked inquiringly at liim. 


58 


PHEBE. 


He was a tall, muscular man. Ills head sat firml}' 
on a short, tljick neck. His hands hung at his side, 
browned and rougliened with heavy work ; but they 
had that look which hands well cared for, even 
wdien exposed to toil, insist on maintaining. But 
Nicholas Petrovsky’s unusual feature was his eyes. 
They were large, round, deeply set, and hazel-gray. 
The iris was streaked witli yellow. He could see in 
the dark. Phebe had known him to go occasion- 
ally into places as black as a pocket to look for 
something missing, where others were afraid to take 
a step forward. She had first employed him about 
two years before. He was a mystery ,to her then ; 
he was a mystery still. But she had little curiosity 
about people. She had never settled it in her own 
mind whether he was good or bad, morally consid- 
ered. He was an exceedingly practical, thorough 
farmer. He had served her faithfully. He knew 
every thing about the house and the barns. He had 
often made himself useful in carpentering. He un- 
derstood flowers. He had the facility of most Bus- 
sians with languages, speaking English almost with- 
out an accent, and professing to speak French and 
German equally well. His mistress was not a sufii- 
cient judge to decide about .any other language than 
her own, however. 

Though Petrovsky now and then awakened in her 
an indefinable suspicion, it was so fleeting, and 
he w'as so skillful, that, like many another really 


EWIXG FARM. 


59 


keen-siglited woman, she dismissed lier fugitive fears 
as foolish fancies, and, feeling able “ to take care 
of herself,” never thought of parting with her 
farmer. 

To-night, she had a certain aroused feeling. The 
back of the house was always a little eyrie after the 
shadows began to fall. A breeze had sprung up 
while she was fondling the cat. The pines were in 
motion and whispering ominously. The light was 
now so obscure that she could not see Petrovsky’s 
features distinctly, and she had an odd, irritated con- 
sciousness that he could view her slightest expres- 
sion. 

Although she had many reasons for knowing that 
she was a beautiful woman, yet probably no woman 
so rarely beautiful as she was could comprehend the 
extent of her power. It was this loveliness that was 
keeping Petrovsky at the Ewing farm. In all the 
months of the past two years he had never seen his 
mistress with the unconsciousness of a girl and the 
glory of a woman as ho had seen her this night. 
He felt desperate. The darkness saved him from 
discovery. He could not bear to lose sight of her. 

“ I didn’t know whether to trouble you about the 
strawberries or not. They are picked. The crates ' 
are in readiness for early shipping. They ought to 
go at half past three to-morrow morning, but Mi- 
chael’s wife is very sick again, and he declares he 
can’t start before five.” 


60 


rilEBE. 


“ They must go at half past three. If Michael 
can’t leave his wife I’ll take them to the boat.” 

“ I’ll go,” said Petrovsky, with sudden eagerness. 
A minute before he liad not intended to perform 
Michael’s duties, but his one fixed intention was to be 
unfailingly useful to Phebe. He had wanted her 
either to say Michael must go or to ask him timidly 
to undertake the extra work. 

She was always apologetic in demanding additional 
labor from those she employed. When, on rare occa- 
sions, Petrovsky beheld her in this mood, he felt on 
something like an equality with her. 

The mistress of Ewing Farm was tenderly merciful 
to man and beast. This quality of mercy in her 
nature could be counted upon. But she was also 
strong ; and young strength delights in emergencies. 

“I’ll go myself, Nicholas,” ' she said, with deter- 
mination. “ Have every thing ready for me to fasten 
the horse to the spring wagon. Put the crates in the 
last thing. O, and tell Michael I’ll look in on his 
wife on my way home.” 

She turned to the door. The cat at her feet, 
startled by the swish of her dress, sprang across the 
porch. Nicholas saw it disappear in one of the pines. 
The other one uttered a plaintive cry and stolidly 
held its ground. Phebe knew where it was by its 
shining eyes. The farmer’s eyes shone too. All at 
once she felt afraid. 

“ Good-night,” she said, and went into the house. 


EWiyG FARM. 


61 


The Russian lingered after she was gone. He 
stood still a long time. He walked to one of the low 
windows of tlie ground-floor bedroom and tried it. 
It was not locked. He shook his head with satisfac- 
tion. He perfectly understood the feeling of security 
which possessed his mistress. 


62 


PHEBE. 


CHAPTER YI. 

AW EMERGENCY. 

As soon as Miss Ewing entered the sitting-room 
her uncomfortable impressions vanished. A Roches- 
ter lamp was burning brightly. A few coals glow- 
ered on the hearth. Sophia, her invaluable factotum, 
came limping in with a New York evening paper. 
Presently the handsome mistress of Ewing Farm was 
absorbed in the day’s news, not the least item of 
which to her was the market quotations. 

Nothing could suggest greater stability and repose 
than she did. She had drawn a Shaker rocker to the 
table. The wooden rafters of the ceiling, glossy and 
brown with age and paint, dimly reflected the shad- 
ows which the Are made. The lamp enfolded a huge 
circle of light, only partially tempered by a large 
shade of crimson poppies. 

She sat upright in the big chair, her cheeks as 
fresh as if she were twenty, her long lashes shad- 
ing their satin contour, their glow enhanced by 
the nearness of the poppy shade. Handsome, inde- 
pendent, resolute, most feminine, she was as happy as 
a man in her own earnings and her own spendings ; 
she was always glad of company and just as much re- 


AN EMERGENCY. 


63 


juiced in solitude, feeling as safe with Sophia near 
as if she had the Seventh Reginient, and conscious of 
no want unfulfilled except, the ever-present desire to 
see John. 

She read till she was sleepy, and that was not 
late. At nine o’clock the house was wrapped in 
the profound stillness of a June uight, and every 
one about the ])lace was asleep except Nicholas 
Petrovsky. 

Though Phebe had gone into the house she had not 
vanished from his sight, for he had crouched outside 
the window under the shadow of a rose-bush, while 
she read, and when she went up to her room he 
had gone to the top of the knoll and gloomily watched 
her windows till the light was extinguished. Then 
he walked thoughtfully and slowly to the carriage- 
house, where he and Job, the boy of all work, had 
comfortable rooms, Michael, the one family man 
about the place, occupying the farm-house proper. 

It seemed to Phebe that she had slept but a minute 
when the dawn, breaking at three o’clock, awakened 
her. She sprang out of bed, took a hasty bath, and 
at half i^ast three was standing by the kitchen table 
drinking the hot coffee and eating the bread and 
butter that Sophia had prepared. 

“ No, Sophia, no more now. But have a hearty . 
breakfast ready for me, jdease, when I get back. Just 
run out to the stable and see if the berries are all 
right, and I will follow presently. 


PHEBE. 


ei 

AVlien Sophia limped into the stable Petrovsky 
was there. The liorses were fastened to the wagon. 

He had not expected to see Sophia. 

“Isn’t Miss Ewing 

“Yes,” said Sophia, “I’m to drive around to the 
house for her.” 

“ I’ll do it myself.” 

“Ho, you will nut,” she said, with determination, 
and seizing the reins energetically she started the 
horses. She did not like Petrovsky. She had not 
lived forty-five years in vain. 

Miss Ewing looked up in surprise as the wagon 
paused in front of the kitchen door, and the resolute 
dragoness, throwing the reins over the dash-board, 
confronted her. 

“ Why, Sophia, who put the horses to the spring- 
wagon ? Is Michael there, after all ? ” 

“Ho’m,” said Sophia, with grim Scotch scorn; 
“ the Poosian. He’s every-where, as usual.” 

Phebe smiled good-naturedly at Sophia’s chronic 
irritation. The rubicund face of her maid was as 
dear to her as the far^n, so she said soothingly but 
firmly: 

“You are prejudiced, Sophia. We couldn’t get 
along without Hicholas.” 

She sprang into the wagon. The horses turned 
their heads southward, following th^ drive which 
seemed to saunter aimlessly for a good distance and 
tlien terminated in a long straight lane flanked on 


EMERGENCY. 


65 


either side by venerable locusts growing out of grass 
thick and closely shaven as an English lawn. 

The sky was mottled wdth flecks of cloud of pearly 
whiteness ; a faint mist hung over the Sound ; the 
birds had begun to sing ; a coast steamer appeared 
to stand motionless in mid-water ; the air was sat- 
urated with sweet smells, and was cool and warm at 
once. 

‘‘ It will be a hot day,” thought Phebe. Good 
for the rye.” She took off her round hat, t(^feel the 
soft breeze on her head. 

The horses jogged steadily forward. The berries 
emitted a delicious fragrance. The white specks of 
cloud slowly changed to pink. The sound became a 
vast piece of mother-of-pearl. The sun came up out 
of the water with a burst of glory, and lighted up 
every thing, Phebe most of all. The young curate, 
Thomas Woods, out for a view of the sunrise, saw 
instead Phebe, hatless, but her glorious hair shining 
like that of Yenus in classic myth. Straightway, 
being of a poetical turn of mind, he compared her to 
Aurora, and, if the horses had not been so prosaic 
and the spring-wagon somewhat the worse for use, 
he would have expected to see this sudden vision of 
loveliness, met by a troop of Olympian maidens in 
pale pinks and blues, mount the skies and vanish 
slowly from sight. But nothing of the kind hap- 
2)cned. 

She soberly put her hat on, said, sedately, Good- 
5 


PliEBE. 


morning, Mr. Woods; a fine day!” and drove de- 
murely until she was out of sight, when she indulged 
in furtive laughter. It seemed a sin to Phebe to 
laugh at any man’s admiration, even behind his back, 
but Mr. Woods was so openly and acquiescently in 
love, apparently, that she felt provoked and amused 
at once. She would not assist him to greater depths, 
if that were possible, for she was not a flirt ; and as 
he appeared unwilling to help himself also, she had 
lost all patience with him. 

I should think he would go away,” she said, half 
aloud to herself. “ I would, if I were a man.” Her 
laughter was succeeded by a rising color. 

She whipped up the horses, the road being smooth 
and level, and presently the landing appeared in 
sight. 

The boat, already laden with freight, was just 
scraping against the pier as she drove upon it; soon, 
by means of a fee, she saw her berries safely carried 
on board. Then, while listening to cheerful matu- 
tinal sounds now constantl}" increasing, she sat and 
watched the small steam-boat, with its accompanying 
barge, glide out into deep water and bend its head 
toward the city. 

It was five o’clock when she reached Michael’s 
house. He was outside at the well. He did not 
hear the soft tread of the horses in the rich soil. Even 
the wheels made no sound. She stopped in front of 
the house and watched the well-sweep sail into the 


AN EMERGENCY. 


67 


air, heard the thud of the bucket in the deep, cool 
water, and saw it come up mossy and dripping. 
“Give me a drink, Michael.” 

The Irishman turned around wdth a start, his pug- 
nacious face suddenly wreathing with rosy smiles as 
he observed his mistress. Ilis hair was still wet 
with a hasty douse in the tin basin on a bench by 
the door. Ilis voice was rich with that persuasive 
mellowness common to the Celt. 

“ Good marnin’. Miss Ewing. Any thin’ the matter 
up to the house ? I see yer well yerself. It’s a bonny 
marnin’ to be oot. In five minutes more I’d ben on me 
w’ay to the place for the berries. They’ll hev to be 
sint on the siven o’clock boat this marnin’, ma’am, 
ez me wife’s thet sick ag’in, an — ” 

By this time Phebe had satisfied her thirst, and 
she interrupted him with : 

“ The berries are sailing to Kew York this minute. 
If they had waited till seven o’clock I should have 
lost the sale of them. I am very sorry your wife is 
sick again, though. Is she very ill ? I have stopped 
on my way back from the boat to see her.” 

“ An’ the berries air gone, air they ! Well ! Well ! 
But yez don’t mean yez tuk them to the landin’ yerself. 
I’d set up all night — rayther — ” 

“ Never mind any more apologies, Michael. What 
is the matter with poor Maria ? ” 

“ Lumbago, ag’in, ma’am. • She’s that useless ! An’ 
the strongest, hilthiest wotvian whan I merried her ! ” 


68 


PHEBE. 


“ She made a bad bargain, I’m afraid. You haven’t 
treated her well.” 

“Indade, thin, it’s me thet should be a complainin’. 
I merried her to keep tlie house, an’ git me meals, an’ 
Ink after a man’s comfort loike, but” — Michael shook 
his head mournfully — ‘‘ it’s ben hard lines, hard lines !” 

“Shame on you, Michael. Poor Maria has just 
worked herself to death for you and the five little 
children she found when she came to you. You 
ouglit to be glad and proud to take care of lier.” 

“I am content, indade, ma’am. Put it shouldn’t 
be fergot that Maiia hez hed her support an’ the 
countenance of me name this tin year. An’ she’d be 
in the poor-house or the ’os[)ital now, loike as not, ef I 
hed n’t merried her. But she’s a good woman, a very 
patient, hard-working woman, in her day, Maria’s 
ben, an’ I entind to do what’s right by her. Ilev you 
.a mind to come in, then. Miss Ewing? ” 

He helped his mistress to dismount with duo re- 
spect and care. Phebe entered the farm-house, 
Michael’s house, if the truth be told, only because 
of Maria’s industry and cleanliness, for the Irishman 
was notorious for his shirking and much talking dur- 
ing the lius}^ seasons when extra men were employed. 

Miss Ewing’s bright face, as well as the rich cus- 
tard and fine bread she now displayed to the sick 
woman, were wonderfully reviving to Maila, who 
had long ago acquired the ]'>a{ient silence which 
working-woinen allied to men of Michael’s type sooner 


AN EMERGENCY. 


or later learn. Her chief care during her sick times 
was to suppress herself. Fortunately the children 
she had reared were rugged boys, all away now and 
earning their living. 

o n 

Phebe’s eyes filled with tears as she silently noticed 
the whiteness of the fioor, the absolute cleanliness of 
every thing, and even the little breakfast-table set. 

You haven’t attempted to do any thing this morn- ' 
ing, have you, Maria ? AYhy did you try to get up ? 
You ought to be' still a day after such attacks as you 
have. You ought to make Michael wait on you, when 
you are so feeble.” 

O, ma’am ! ” and Maria smiled faintly, and lifted 
her hands. “ I moight wait till doomsday.” 

“ Do you think you could get into the spring wagon 
and ride back with me to the house ? ” 

The woman’s wan face shone with determination. 

“ For if you can. I’ll just take you home, and send 
Nanny down here to look after the cream and butter. 
Your husband can shift for himself. It will do him 
good. lie can take his dinner with him .to the fields, 
for that matter.” 

Michael was profuse in his apologies to Pliebe for 
all the trouble she was taking for him and urged his 
wife to hurry, “ so ez not to keep Miss Ewing waitin’ ,” 
and, in short, arrogated the attention so entirely to 
himself that his mistress finally said : 

‘‘ Be still, Michael, you think too highly of yourself. 
You would be a poor, worthless wretch without 


70 


PllEBE. 


Maria, and I wish yon to understand that you keep 
your place only because of 3^0111' good wife. It seems 
it has taken both Maria and me to attend to you in 
various waj’s thus far this morning. There, is that 
easier?” adjusting a cusliion behind the aching 
shoulders. 

“ Thank you, ma’am. It just fits the weak spot.” 

Phebe tucked in still another cushion ; then, taking 
the reins whicli the at length quiet Michael handed 
her, she said severe! to him, “ There is much to be 
done to-da}^ Make haste up to the house.” 

He touched an invisible cap respectfully as- she 
turned her horses toward home. 


THE THREE LETTERS. 


71 


CHAPTER YIL 

THE THBEE LETTEKS. 

When Phebe disappeared from the sight of the 
Rev. Thomas Woods his poetic enthusiasm took a re- 
flective and prosaic turn. 

He was a young curate, filling the pulpit of Dr. 
West during that aged divine’s absence in Europe. 
His pastoral experience had been limited. His life 
before his course in Hobart College had been that of 
a petted only son in a remote inland town. His social 
ideas were the ultra-exclusive ones of a provincial 
neighborhood ; and in coming to a place like Killian 
Hook he could form no idea of the sturdy pride and 
independence of the “ old settlers,” let alone the social 
and literary culture that in some way penetrates to 
nearly every suburb of Kew York. 

The Rev. Thomas Woods from the beocinninor took 
the attitude, not of a man come to show that great 
Light that shined upon the world eighteen hundred 
years ago, but of an autocrat whose pleasurable duty 
was to revive much mediseval ecclesiasticism, to 
preach long sermons on church unity which simply 
meant the unification of Protestantism in Anglican- 
ism, and to gather the women and girls of the Hook 
into a Dorcas society where a little sewing was accom- 


12 


PUEBE. 


plislied, a few Browning poems disintegrated, and a 
great deal of conversation carried on on the subject of 
sisterhoods in the Church. 

Mr. Woods favored the ultra views of the Iligli- 
church movement in England; he believed in con- 
ventual life and practice, boldly advocating the three 
vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience ; he even 
talked persuasively of penance and confession. Had 
it not been for Dr. West’s moderate conservatism 
Killian Hook Episcopalians might have gone over in 
a body to the curate’s notions, for he undoubted 
possessed power of the kind which is usually the en- 
dowment of a florid, imaginative temperament. 

At the date of this story, therefore, the topic at 
every tea-partj^, church sociable, or Dorcas society 
was whether the order set apart in the Presbyterian 
and* Methodist Churches, as well as the Episcopal, 
should be an order of deaconesses or a sisterhood. 

Pliebe had taken only a mild interest in the discus- 
sion, as she was frequently absent from these various 
gatherings, and was generously excused, for all knew at 
once the isolation and responsibility of her situation. 
The whole bent of her nature was toward the religion 
of her forefathers. She loved to sit in the dilap- 
idated Quaker meeting-house, ten miles farther up the 
Sound, the few times she was able to go there in the 
course of a year. The silent communion of each soul 
with its Maker, the homely experiences drawn from 
immediate inspiration, the individuality of every com- 


2I1E THREE LETTERS. 


73 


municant, and the absence of all proseljtism — these 
tilings were dear to lier and part of tlie hereditary be- 
liefs current in her very life-blood. But on most 
Sundays, as it was near, slie worshiped in tlie Metli- 
odist church, only a mile away. It was no unusual 
thing for Phebe to give a bit of her testimony in class- 
meeting there, and once in a while her rich, tender 
voice had been audible in a prayer, less of petition 
than of thanksgiving. On Sunday afternoons she 
attended vespers at Mr. Woods’s church. She loved 
the correct, well-rendered music, the organ-like tones 
of the rich Gregorian chants, the aesthetic repose that 
stole in upon her when the curate in his spotless robe 
stood wifh hands joined together, like one of Fra 
Angelico’s angels, the tip of each linger of one hand 
touching the tips of those of the other, his eyes stead- 
fastly fixed on the vaulted blue ceiling dotted with 
golden stars. The afternoon light stealing in through 
the stained-glass windows, the high, girlish treble of 
the choir-boys, the orderliness of rich and poor in 
following the service, made her not more religious, 
but gave her an inspiration toward religion. 

She had one of those delightfully simple natures 
with strong convictions of duty and with a mind lib- 
eral enough to enjoy her Lord wherever she found 
him. Sunday was the recreation of her soul. In be- 
ing thus liberal toward all denominations she was only 
expressing the spirit that had hitherto pervaded Kil- 
lian Hook — a fact that Mr. Woods could not altogether 


74 


PHEBE. 


appreciate. Ilis societies, liis clubs, and liis mediaeval- 
ism were gradually building up boundaries never 
before detined at the Hook. And this spirit of scho- 
lastic differentiation began to penetrate all the other 
churches. A war of words threatened to infringe 
upon the hitherto peaceful Christian activity of a 
wonderfully united neighborhood. 

Mr. Woods had fixed his attention upon Phebe for 
various reasons. He had, first of all, selected lier for 
a sister. Her vocation was to be read in the very 
lines of her pure, spirited face. Her dignity and ex- 
ecutiveness marked her as the future first motlier 
superior of an order that he would establish. But, 
as he became further acquainted with her, flie mother 
superior receded into the background, the possible 
rector’s wife began to peer over his shoulder or look 
out from the chair opposite his, and always with 
Phebe’s face. 

From whatever point he had viewed her, however, 
he had found her so admirable that his pleasure in 
her had never been in the slightest degree modified 
or concealed. All Killian Hook said that the curate 
was deep in love with Phebe, and, as we have seen, 
she thought so herself. 

But when, as has been said, the strawberries and 
she disappeared from sight, his refiections took a pro- 
saic turn. He no longer watched the lights and shad- 
ows on the Sound. He ceased to separate the notes of 
the different birds. The sweet smells from meadow 


THE THREE LETTERS. 75 

and woodside failed to attract Ids attention and divert 
Ids thoughts to swinging censers tilled with incense. 
To tell the truth, the curate had been rudely shocked 
from a wholly pleasant dream to see Miss Ewing 
driving a spring- wagon the whole body of which was 
filled with strawberry-baskets and her acting iri the 
capacity of a market-woman. 

“Yes, nothing more or less — a market-woman !” 

His bushy eyebrows contracted and met. He took 
off his hat also and ran his hand distractedly through 
his blonde liair. He looked down on the wide cut of 
his pantaloons. He held his white, shapely hand out in 
the sun — how faultless the nails were ! And he had 
actually thought of Miss Ewing as the future Mi*s. 
Thomas Woods. Either she would have to forfeit 
that honor or she must drop peculiar habits. Queer, 
independent women were, of all people, to be the 
most avoided. 

He took out a tablet, studied his engagements for 
the day as if he were a man of tremendous affairs, and 
made another jotting : “ Call on Miss Ewing at eight 
P. M.” Then his brow cleared, he began to retrace 
his steps, and reached the rectory just in time for an 
ample breakfast, which dissipated temporarily all anx- 
ieties concerning the most interesting woman he had 
ever met. 

Shortly after Phebe had completed her morning 
duties, and while she sat with her lap full of roses, a 
round table drawn up before her, a half-dozen vases 


76 


PHEBE. 


of all shapes and sizes upon it, Sophia brought her 
three letters. 

One was postmarked “Newport.’’ “It must be 
from Mabel.” Another was stamped “ Melbourne ” — 
“ From John.” And the third, with a band of straiglit 
lines across tlie envelope and distinctly marked “Bos- 
ton ” — “ Who could have written that ? ” 

She opened John’s letter first. A mere glance sent 
the blood rusliing in waves of rich color over cheek 
and brow. It read : 

“My Darling- Piiebe: After four long years of 
effort and loneliness my work has been crowned with 
success, and I am coming home. I have not dared 
give you any hope before, lest I should have to dash 
it to the ground. Now all uncertainty is at an end. 
I have made a modest fortune from my share in the 
Atlas gold-mine. Tell father that the mortgage shall 
be paid off as soon as I arrive, and tell our precious 
mother to expect her devoted son by September. I’ll 
not write again, but will dispatch you when I reach 
Paris. John.” 

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. 
The tears trickled down her cheeks — tears of gladness, 
tears of sorrow. John coming home — at last ! But 
she had never intended he should return to the old 
homestead without some warning of the changes that 
had occurred. But how could she get word to him 


THE THREE LETTERS. 


17 


now ? To come back all eagerness to see tlie loved 
ones, gone now for tliree whole years, and to find only 
her ! The blow would be very great. But lie was 
licr John, her dear, faitliful old John, and when lie 
knew all he would forgive her. And perhaps, after 
all, he might write again, affording her the opportunity 
to prepare him before his arrival. 

She wiped her eyes and opened Mabel’s letter. 
Smiles came while the tears still continued rollino* 

O 

down her cheeks. 

Mabel wrote : 

“ My Pkecious Pkebe-bird : I am jiining for a 
sight of you, and I have planned a raid on you. You 
will see that I have studied the capacity of the old 
house. I have had the audacitj^ to invite my friend, 
Beatrice Olyphant, to make you a visit with me, if 
you will have us. Beatrice has lieard so much of you 
that she is dying to meet you. I have another friend 
here, a Mr. Matthew Swape, who is, or will very soon 
be, engaged to Beatrice, who has planned every thing. 
You see Mr. Swape owns a ^^acht, a splendid sailer, and 
he is fairly wasting away for an opportunity to take 
us on a trip. lie would jump at the chance to bring 
us down to Killian Hook. 

“Mr. Swape could occupy the room off the sitting- 
room. Beatrice could take the south chamber, and 
I should claim yoiir old room. Mrs. Montgonier}^, 
Beatrice’s aunt, who would chaperone us, could take 


78 


PHEBE. 


John’s room across the hall from mine. Harry Bird- 
sail, the champion polo-player and bicyclist of I^ew- 
port this summer and a great all-around friend, and 
whom I would dearly like to invite too, could have the 
square hall-chamber. Juliette, who would be maid for 
all of ns women-folks, although she belongs to Bea- 
trice, could go anywhere. If you should get tired of 
us right away, why, the yacht would be on hand to 
take us off at short notice. But O, Phebe, do say yes, 
and I am sure we shall have the loveliest time all to- 
gether. Your affectionate, adoring Mabel.” 

She folded this letter with smiling acquiescence. 
There had been no company for a whole year to stay*. 
Mabel’s request struck a responsive chord in her 
heart ; the visit would serve to partly occupy the 
tedious waiting for John. It was such a good sum- 
mer, too — plenty of green vegetables, abundance of 
fruit, the cold spring notwithstanding, and the milk 
and cream were never more delicious. Then, too, 
the carriages had just been repainted, and the seven- 
year-old roans would make an excellent team. She 
would insist on the party coming early in August. 

She examined the third letter from every possible 
exterior point of view. She knew no one in Boston. 
It is true that twenty years ago her fatlier’s adopted 
brother had settled two hours from Boston ; but they 
had heard nothing from him in the last ten years, and 
he had always till then been a source of trouble. The 


r 


THE THREE LETTERS. 


79 


handwriting, moreover, was a woman’s, and it was in 
a cliirography slie did not like — not a single letter 
standing up self-supporting, as if it had a backbone — 
every one quavering with a dash of ink at the top or 
bottom, as if stuck on — a would-be big hand, but feeble 
in its very assertion. After all this philosophizing 
and examination she opened the rather lengthy epis- 
tle, and the further she read the graver grew her 
countenance. It ran thus : 

“ Dear Cousin Phebe : My letter will doubtless 
be a great surprise ; but I am sure that when you 
know how exactly our situations coincide you will 
open your arms to me like a loving sister and give 
me the shelter of your home. I am alone in a great 
city ; you are alone in the desolate country ; although, 
indeed, I am satisfied anywhere. To a woman of 
your higji spirits and indomitable courage the suf- 
ferings of solitude must, at times, be most acute. 
I long to share your sorrows and to participate in your 
joys. Divine consolation has often been granted me 
in my wanderings ; and, having heard how deeply re- 
ligions you are, I am rejoiced to say that I too look 
to the eternal verities in my times of need, which, 
alas ! appear to be perpetual. A period of great ad- 
versity has overtaken me. I am poor — so poor! 
My father, your precious father’s adopted brother, 
dead now for three interminable years, alwaj^s told me 
to call on my relatives at Killian Hook if I were ever 


so 


PHEBE. 


in want. I know that my saintly nncle and aunt have 
gone home ; but I know, for father assured me over 
and over it w^as so, that, had they lived, they would 
gladly at any time have received me as a daughter. 
I read of your bitter loss when it occurred. A chance 
acquaintance told me of dear Cousin John’s protracted 
absence in Australia. IIow many, many horribly des- 
olate hours you must spend! Although no tie of 
blood binds us, yet the associations of the past, my 
father’s trustful dependence on your father — surely 
I have but to mention my longing to throw myself 
into your arms, and you will call me to you. With 
dearest love and yearning impatience to see you, and 
feeling sure that you will urge me to come at once, 

“Your expectant cousin, Jane Bane.” 

Phebe sat holding the letter in stupefied perplex 
ity. She read it over ; she abstractedly arranged a 
vase of flowers ; and then, looking up, she called — 
‘‘ Sophia ! ” 

The dining-room door was ajar. There was the 
clink of silver at the sideboard. Sophia limped 
across the room, thrust her head in at the door, ask- 
ing, “ Did you call. Miss Phebe ? ” 

Yes. Leave the silver and come here ; I want to 
talk to you.” 

The Scotch woman appeared again presently. 

‘‘Sit down, Sophia, and rest yourself while we 
talk.” ■ 


TUE THREE LETTERS. 


81 


The maid’s pleased countenance was a study. Slie 
had lived at the Ewing farm for twenty-five years. 
Her mistress was truly the apple of her eye, and a 
very shrewd eye it was. She had a round face ; her 
high cheek-bones were perennially shining and florid ; 
she combed lier black hair, sparsely sprinkled with 
gray, as tightly back from her forehead as it could be 
drawn ; her teeth were far apart and slightly protrud- 
ing, and over them closed a grim, determined mouth, 
at once inflexible and kind. She had hurt her Jiip 
when a girl, and Mrs. Ewing having nursed her 
carefully through a long and painful illness she had 
repaid this care with the devotion of her life. Her 
limp, which in nowise affected her strength, made a 
footfall as cheery to Phebe as the sound of the cricket 
on the sitting-room hearth. 

After the death of her parents Miss Ewing had 
made Sophia chief-counselor, to the envy and annoy- 
ance of many a changing man-servant and maid-serv- 
ant; for Sophia performed her whole duty in exe- 
cuting orders, and often, on her own responsibility, 
put an end to waste, mismanagement, or too much 
love-making in the kitchen. She had a profound 
sense of the honor of her position, and had the shrewd 
Scotch wisdom never to infringe on the liberty ac- 
corded her. 

For some time she had been watchful of ISTicholas, 
but to all her casual remarks to that effect Phebe 
had turned a deaf ear ; for Miss Ewing had the easy 
6 


82 


PHEBE. 


confidence of unbrolven success in all her undertak- 
ings; and, if the truth he told, deep down in her 
heart she did not helieve the man or woman existed 
who could wish her harm, let alone study to do her 
harm. So, on this one point concerning the former, 
she steadily and good-naturedly differed from Sophia. 

“ I ’want to read this letter to you, Sophia, Listen 
closely and tell me what you think of it.” She read 
the letter aloud. ‘‘Well?” she said, after a long' 
pause on Sophia’s part. 

“Well, then,” said Sophia, sturdily, “I consider it 
a vera high-sounding, hypercriticull mess o’ nonsense. 
‘Eternil varities,’ and ‘throwing herself inter your 
arms,’ and ‘dearest love’ — there isn’t a hit o’ truth 
in it. If there is one thing I despise. Miss Phehe, 
it’s a perfessional })reacher o’ poverty ; an’ that letter 
has the vera ring o’ that sort o’ thing. Don’t you 
take a hit o’ notice on it.” 

“ O, I shall have to answer it,” said her mistress, 
resolutely — “ of course ! ” 

“ Now, why. Miss Phehe ? She aint none o’ your 
kin.” 

“ I know, I know, Sophia ; but father and mother 
were always merciful — they erred, if ever, on the 
side of mercy. I suppose we could give Jane, or 
whatever she is to he called — ” 

“ Call her Miss Bane,” said Sophia. 

“ Miss Bane a welcome for a month.” Her eyes 
fell on the motto, faded v.dth years— hut the motto 


THE THREE LETTERS. 


S3 


of tlic Ewing family for generations — Be not forget- 
ful to entertain strangers : for thereby some have 
entei'tained angels unawares.” 

“ There, read that, Sophia ; ” and she pointed to 
the text. 

“ \ on must take it witli a grain o’ common sense, 
Miss Pliebe. AVe’ve all heerd tell of devils, too, bein’ 
entertained unawares. You hev one cloven fut around 
now, or I’m not Sopliia MacEwen, an’ now you are 
plannin’ to harbor another.” 

Sophia, you look at every one too suspiciously. 
Here we have lived alone four years, and no harm has- 
come to us. W e have been taken care of ; every 
thing has prospered. I have been just to all, minded 
my own affairs ; and though all Killian Hook thonglit 
^ it was dreadful for me to try to carry on the farm, 
yet see what crops we are going to have this year. 
If we haven’t saved any money we have made the 
strap buckle, as father used to say. all this makes 
me feel generous.” 

Phebe’s eye expanded and her fine face shone wnth 
contentment and gratitude. 

“You’ve done all this. Miss Phebe, and gret credit 
you deserve. '’But you’ve heerd tell o’ the cow that 
put her fut in the bucket o’ her own milk and upset 
it. I say it in kindness and with due respect. Miss 
Phebe — you know I do ; but I think you’re a-getting 
over-confident. Harin’ll come to you if you don’t 
turn Petrovsky away ; an’ you’ll only spread a net for 


rilEBE. 


your fiit if yon give shelter to any person who writes 
a letter like that.” 

She pointed her pudgy finger scornfully at the 
open sheet. 

I’ll think it over a day or two. How listen to 
this ; ” and she read John’s letter. 

That’s better. O, Miss Phebe ! ” and she took 
her mistress’s hand. ‘‘A gret burden will be rolled 
olf my spirits when he comes. The Lord send him 
soon !” 

Amen ! ” said Phebe, reverently. Ho seL^ish 
thought of care or protection entered her mind ; only 
the sweet, glad, sisterly love that longed to see the 
beloved and minister to his needs. 

“ Here is another letter, too ; ” and she read the 
, third. ‘‘ Do you think we can take care of such grand 
people? I would like to try, if you will put your 
faithful shoulder to the wheel.” 

‘‘Of course we ken. I’d like to see the house full 
of company agen. It ’ud seem like old times. Han- 
ny’s in pretty good trainin’. Maria’ll do any thing 
for you, and I’ll do my best. Ef we only hed a bet- 
ter set o’ men around. Miss Phebe.” 

“ O Sophia ! those poor men ! I don’t see but that 
they are as good as those of our neighbors.” 

“Hot by a long shot! Michael’s a regular fox. 
Job’s so bad thet nobody’ll hev him but you — thet 
you know. Miss Phebe— and Petrovsky, he’s the vera 
old fellow himself 1 ” 


TUE THREE LETTERS. 


85 


“ I’ll make you a promise, Sophia ; if you will help 
me through with the company successfully I’ll dis- 
miss those three men at the end of the season and en- 
gage a new set.” 

“ Ef you’ll only send them away now. Say you 
will, Miss Phebe. Help’s that plenty, this year — so 
many I-talians, Ilongarins, Swedes, and Greeks a 
coinin’ in, let alone the Irish and Germans just 
swarmin’ into Hew York.” 

“ Ho, no, Sophia ; I shall keep them till the sum- 
mer work is done — that is all ; ’’ and she turned 
majestically to her flowers. ' 

The maid limped into the dining-room, and her 
mistress knew that she was talking to herself and 
shaking her head energetically by the sound of the 
spoons, as the Scotchwoman wiped them, dropping 
one by one into the sideboard drawer. 


86 


PHEBE. 


CHAPTEE YIIL 

A SELr-INVITED GUEST. 

The day liad been a fatiguing one to Miss Ewing. 
She was a woman who arrived at decisions quickly 
and acted promptly. 

The letter from Miss Bane hung over her like a 
nightmare. What harm could it do to let this poor 
creature come for a month, at least. If she did not 
find her guest congenial she could endure the dis- 
comfort for another's good. Perhaps a young woman 
from Boston might furnish her with many new ideas. 

Poor Phebe ! Could she have analyzed her secret 
soul, she would have found that she dreaded to say 
no to misfortune, and had, besides, a touch of the 
romantic, which led her to turn the mysterious letter 
over in her thought more and more favorably, and all 
the while she was convinced that Sophia was right 
and she was wrong. 

But, as another evening brought coolness and a 
fresh breeze from the south, the feeling of fatigue 
left her. A delightful consciousness of the sweet- 
ness of her well-ordered home soothed each weary 
sense. She came down to the front stoop with her 
fancy-work and pretended to embroider, but her 
needle lay most of the time in her lap. 


A SELF-INVITED GUEST. 


‘ 67 

It was a beautiful ^vorld. 

She gazed at the Sound, inhaled the salty, damp 
air with a sigh of satisfaction, and looked lovingly at 
the group of elms on the knoll, whose tops rustled in 
the wind. It smelt like rain, she tliought, and a hol- 
low, resonant echo in the water led her to look south- 
ward more closely. 

“We shall have rain before morninsj.” 

“Job,” she cried, as that loosely-knit and freckled- 
faced youth lazily wheeled a lawn-mower toward hei*, 
“ leave the grass and go to the stables and tell Pe- 
trovsky that every thing had better be put under cover. 
Help him all you can. Job.” 

“Yes’m.” 

“ There’ll be a thunder-storm, I am sure,” thought 
Phebe, accounting in this way for the heavy, aching 
sensation in her head, a sure precursor with her of 
electric, disturbance. A distant train sent a rushing 
sound through the air. She could hear the wheels 
revolving. “ I am sure there will be rain.” 

At this juncture her attention was attracted by a 
man walking along the path by the drive. A covert 
smile twinkled a second in her eyes, but when Mr. 
Woods drew near she rose to receive him with stately 
cordiality. 

He had a mixed feeling of the lover and pastor 
both, and, unfortunately for the memoranda jotted 
down on the tablet of his memory in the morn- 
ing, the former personality so far predominated that 


88 


PHEBE, 


he feared he would be like wax in Miss Ewing’s 
hands. 

Ilis state of mind toward her was a constant irrita- 
tion and amazement to himself. If one old gossip 
at Killian Hook bad told him that Phebe Ewing was 
“ every day of thirty years old,” twenty had. The 
woman Mr. Woods had picked out for his wife from 
the gallery of romance was a damsel all curds and 
cream, barely seventeen years of age — an infant in 
worldly wisdom, but with a Titan’s capacity for intel- 
ligent responsiveness as he should proceed to initiate 
her into the sweet mysteries of falling in love, as well 
as the ornamental and useful duties of a curate’s wife. 
It is true that he was thirty also ; that there was a 
round bald spot with promises of enlargement on the 
crown of his head, and that lie had been engaged 
twice before. But, to his honor be it spoken, one 
of his betrothed had died and the other had proved 
false. 

Phebe, of course, knew none of these facts, ^he 
was probably like most other women. She took it for 
granted that Mr. Woods was in the midst of the first 
serious drama of his life. 

She was distractingly beautiful this summer night 
— even girlish ; but then, thought the curate, sol- 
emnly, “ she is at her high tide ; there will be a sud- 
den ebb of all this life and glow,” and he looked at 
her as if he expected the transformation to occur 
before his eyes. All he saw was the ’ gleam of gold 


.4 SELF-INVITED G UEST. 


89 


in her abundant hair, the deep, sweet, womanly light 
in lier lovely eyes, and the most unconsciously tender 
smile playing about her mouth, as she tried to adjust 
a co.mfortable chair for him where he could enjoy the 
view and the breeze at once. 

If he did not plunge into a talk on conventionalities 
immediately he would never be able to do so. 

Phebe, sweetly unconscious of the tumult of love 
and duty tossing the narrow seas of the curate’s being, 
sat down on the porch-seat near his huge piazza chair, 
and laying her white hand on its broad arm began 
telling him the story of Maria and Michael. 

The curate looked at the hand, and would have 
taken it, but, notwithstanding its confidential near- 
ness, there was something so superb in the freedom 
and purity of her whole person that he dared not. 
Not to be able to dare in love was so contrary to all 
his previous history, and every hypothesis he had 
framed concerning the timidity and willingness of 
any woman he might select, that he reproved himself 
for seeking, not that which was too high for him, but 
that which did not recognize his eminence at once. 
His wounded pride threw a veil over the charms 
which had bewildered him a minute before. He saw 
before him a haughty, arrogant lady with too much 
independence to be lovable, and a really dangerous 
example to the whole neighborhood. 

“ When is Mr. Ewing coming back. Miss Ewing?” 

‘‘ O, I did not tell you ? In September.” 


90 


PHEBE. 


She clasped her liands, her face melted with feel- 
ing, and for an instant she forgot the curate. 

“ I have missed him sadly,” she said, simply. 

“ I dare say you miss having a head to affairs here. 
It seems unnatural for a woman to manage a farm — 
and—” 

She gave him a swift glance of mingled surprise 
and warning. 

“ The farm is mine. I miss John altogether for 
himself.” 

The curate was not to be thwarted now. He had 
given advice gratuitously too many years for that. 

‘‘ Arid you would like to have John — to lean — on — 
would you not ? ” his voice trembling in spite of him- 
self with returning tenderness. 

A faint dimple stole info either cheek. 

“ John has always said that he leaned on me.” 

“ A very pretty compliment — very prett}^ ! ” 

“Mr. Woods,” said Phebe, suddenly, but slowly, 
“ I give you permission to say what you wish. 
What burdens your mind concerning me and my 
affairs ? ” 

If she had been an abbess, and he a poor monk, 
the condescension and condolence of her tone could 
not have been greater. She leaned toward him, the 
roundness of her white throat gleaming in the twi- 
light, the roses in her dress emitting an exquisite 
perfume. 

“I do not know that I had any thing special to 


A SBLIWXV/TAVJ GUEST. 


91 


say. I felt sorry this moriiiiig, to see you burdened 
witli a duty fit for a man — and — and — ” 

“ O, that is all, is it? I am very glad. Pray do 
not permit yourself any further anxiety, dear Mr. 
Woods. 1 had a delightful drive. I only regret 
that I neglected to give you a basket of strawberries. 
Do you think it will rain before morning?” 

He screwed *his eyes into microscopic smallness, 
said he thought it would, and asked Phebe if the air 
outside were not too damp for her. When she said, 
“ O, no — no, indeed ! ” he pulled a small book a lit- 
tle awkwardly out of his pocket and suggested that 
she might like to look at it, as it was a very old copy 
of Religio LaiciP 

“We will go into the house, then. I also have 
something to show you — some sixteenth century mel- 
odies that I have unearthed, composed by George 
Withers for his Hymns and Hallelujahs. If you 
are in voice, I should like to try them with you.” 

The curate was in his element now, and Phebe, 
having warded off interference in her affairs, and hav- 
ing a genuine interest in Mr. Woods’s mediaeval re- 
searches, whether literary or theological, led the way 
into the parlor, called for lights, and for an liour list- 
ened, with all that devoted absorption of which a gra- 
cious nature is capable, to the extracts he read, the 
theories lie had to propose on his hobby of church 
unity, which was also one of hers, though on a sim- 
pler basis, and finally, at his request, played and sang 


92 


FIIEBE. 


the simple, rich tunes of a by-gone age to some mod- 
ern hymns, till he clapped his hands and cried : 

You have discovered a mine. I’ll begin training 
the clioir boys on those hymns next week.” 

Outside the end window, peering through the 
meshes of the curtains, softly blowing in and out, 
Petrovsky was drinking in the music and her beauty, 
and, every now and then as the curate bent over her, 
clutching into the air, as if he were stifling the breath 
out of an invisible presence. 

Ten o’clock arrived, and Mr. Woods, all amiability, 
and Miss Ewing’s unqualified admirer once more, rose 
promptly, for a cardinal law of his social statics was 
that a ministerial visit should terminate at that hour. 

She walked to tlie door with him. 

“ O, how dark ! ” she cried, and see — don’t ^mu 
see it lighten ? You must take my umbrell'a. The 
rain will overtake you.” 

She gave the umbrella to him with one hand, as 
she extended the other, which he clasped warmly and 
lingeringly as he said, ‘‘ Good-night.” 

She watched his slight figure till it was swallowed 
up in the gloom. When the sound of his footsteps 
was lost she said gently to herself : 

“ Hot you — O — not you ! ” 

The night was ominously dark. She felt a host- 
ess’s solicitude for the safety of her guest, and long 
after he must have left the lane she lingered, listen- 
ing for she hardly knew what. 


A SELF-iyVITED GUEST. 


93 


Meanwliile fitful gusts of cool air, followed by a 
hot stillness, blew from the south-east. The sound 
turned a white-cap up here and there, and they showed 
wanly in the sepulchral blackness. 

“ Miss Ewing, are you out here?” inquired Sophia, 
anxiously. 

“ Yes. Isn’t it a strange night ? Look at the sky 
over yonder ; ” and she pointed to the east, palpi- 
tating with electricity. ‘‘ Can’t you feel the dai-k- 
ness ? ” she asked, solemnly, as the light momentarily 
ceased and a wailing breeze quivered through the 
trees. 

“ There’ll be an awful storm. I’ve been a-shuttin’ 
the windows. You’re all right, I’ve always heerd, if 
you’re out of draughts.” 

Phebe laughed an uneasy little laugh, and said, 

I’m not afraid,” even while she was experiencing 
that curious sensation which comes sometimes in states 
of high nervous tension. She could feel the blood 
coursing through her veins from head to foot. Each 
sense was awake and expectant. 

All at once there was a distant rumble, and the in- 
termittent wind steadied into a gale. The gale grew 
so strong that it lifted the gravel from the drive and 
threw it against their faces like hail-stones. Then the 
whole heavens broke into a glare of copper light, the 
leaves turned inside out, tossed like the hands of 
ghosts. The elms writhed and bent to the north. A 
dash of rain pelted the house. 


94 


FIIEBE. 


“ Come in, come in, Miss Pliebe ! You’ll spoil 
yonr dress, and, what’s worse, take cold.” 

“I’m expecting somebody, Sophia. Wliat if it 
should be John ? I cannot tell you wh}^, but it seems 
as if some one were coming right out of this blackness 
toward me. You know I am not superstitious, but 
there is somebody coming. Slie put her hand over 
her eyes and tried to peer down the drive. 

“ Ef any body’s on the road this frightful night, 
it’s an evil spirit. You’d better come in. . See, the 
rain is beginning to drive this way, and — my, how 
wet you are ! ” She touched her mistress’s arm. 

Phebe tasted the salt on her lips. She was a true 
lover of the sea. She stepped fearlessly to the edge 
of the stoop just as the wind gathered into furious 
volume ; her skirts wrapped around her. Suddenly 
taking the Scotchwoman’s hand, she ran into the hall 
and shut the door. 

“Miss Phebe, I never see you act queer before,” 
said Sophia. “ You’re as white as the wall.” 

She did, indeed, appear strangely wrought upon. 
Her eyes, expanded to unusual size, shone like stars. 
Her damp hair curled in numberless fine ringlets 
about her face. Her pallor was intense. 

Pecovering herself in an instant, and laughing at 
Sophia’s awed expression, she said : 

“ We feel the electricity. All the same, throw one 
of the sitting-room blinds open, so that the light will 
shine on the drive if any one is coming.” 


A SELF-IXVITED GUEST. 


95 


Already lier strange impression began to seem 
vague, like a faintly remembered dream. 

Excuse me, Miss Phebe. Eli do no sucli thing. 
You’ve felt the powers o’ the air this niglit, and I tek 
it as a warning. ‘ Paging waves of the sea, foaming 
out their own shame ; wandering stars, to whom is 
reserved the blackness of darkness forever.’ ” 

“ O, Sophia, Sophia, you have the superstition of ' 
your race.” 

“ It is not superstition. It is my ain experience, 
beyond reason.” 

“ Call it hypnotic, and then it will be respectable. 
When I really see a ghost I’ll belieie in snch things, 
or have a presentiment come true. I’ll at least keep 
still.” 

AVhile she was saying this she was opening the 
blind. As' she did so a flash of dazzling vividness 
fllled the room and made the lamp-liglit sickly. The 
crash that followed rent the air witli deafening sound. 

Mistress and maid sat down by common consent 
near each other and ceased talking. The roar and 
light were continuous and terrible. The rain poured 
in a steady torrent, and anon spray came down the 
chimney into the great flre-place, filling the room 
with a sooty siuell. All at once, after one of those 
pauses in a great storm when it is either gathering 
volume or departing, the air was fllled with such con- 
fusion of lightning and thunder that Phebe put her 
hands to her ears and closed her eyes. Through it 


96 


PHEBE. 


all slie licard tlic crasliing of a tree to the ground. 
The floor was alive with blue and red liglit, dancing 
in fantastic lines between the windows and dining- 
room. It suddenly went out ; the wind became still ; 
the steady, quiet falling of the rain told that the worst 
was past. But just then each sprang to her feet, for 
clearly through the damp air came the sound of 
wheels and the 'thud of horses’ feet in the mud. 

Sophia compressed her lips and looked as if execut- 
ing judgment. 

The vehicle stopped. An instant later there was 
the thump of a trunk on the stoop. The bell rang. 

“ Go to the door, Sophia,” said Phebe, authorita- 
tively. “It may be John.” 

“ It’s no Master John, Miss Phebe ; you know that 
yourself. It’s an embodied misfortune. What could 
keep you from the door ef you had a suspicion that 
it was Master John ? ” 

Meanwhile the bell rang again. Sophia now flung 
the door defiantly open, her small, keen blue eyes 
stubborn and afraid. But, instead of Lucifer or his 
angels sailing through the air — for her gaze was di- 
rected upward — she beheld, as her glance sought terra 
firina^ a small, wriggling specimen of womankind 
encased from head to foot in a “ gossamer ” that 
emitted the well-known perfume now the terror of 
fastidious travelers. 

“ Ask them to come in, whoever it is,” said Miss 
Ewing, as Sophia continued to take an inventory. 


A SELF-INVITED GUEST. 


97 


“ I am sure I hear Cousin Phebe’s voice and tlie 
person inside the wet and trailing water-proof pushed 
past the maid and, for one brief second, abaslied be- 
fore Phebe’s splendid presence, halted. The next 
instant she threw herself and her wetness against the 
mistress of Ewing Farm and sighed dolorously, “ O 
cousin, dear cousin ! ” 

Sophia ordered the trunk taken through the house 
to the back of the hall. The man, with a little useless 
grumbling, yielded. She followed him, regarding the 
ark contemptuously as he adjusted it out of sight. 

“ What are you waitin’ for ? ” she asked, as the man 
lingered. 

“ IVly money.” 

“ How much ? ” , 

“ Two dollars, considerin’ the night.” 

‘‘ Pll git it from her,” said Sophia, with alacrity. 

“ The man is waitin’ for his money, madam.” 

‘‘ O yes — his mone3\ I had quite forgotten it,” 
and the traveler felt in her water-proof, then in her 
dress pocket, but in vain. 

“ Could you. Cousin Pliebe — ” 

‘‘Here’s your bag, ma’am;” and Sophia fairly 
thrust a small and shabby satchel, half open, in which 
a pocket-book lay exposed, at its owner. 

Their eyes met, and Jane Bane’s declared war. She 
reluctantly took a bill from the pocket-book, handed 
it to Sophia with a shrug, and began to remove her 

cloak. 

7 


98 


PIIEBE. 


Phebe, still speechless and inactive from sheer 
astonishment, but with the impressive dignity that 
never left her, stood in the door-way of the sitting- 
room as if unconsciously guarding her lares and 
senates. 

“ I see I have taken you by surprise, but it was just 
in this way ; ” and Miss Bane possessed herself of 
Phebe’s hand. After I had written to you— you got 
my letter, didn’t yon ? ” Phebe bowed. “ After I 
had written to you I thought what a simpleton I was 
not to take it for granted that the only relative I have 
in the world would receive me with open arms. So 
I started, and here I am.” 

“ I should have written to you,” said Phebe, com- 
posedly. Y our letter needed reflection.” 

“Now, is it not nice that 1 have saved you the 
trouble ? What a sweet place this is !” 

Miss Ewing’s tender spot was touched. She looked 
around the room, for she had gradually made way for 
the innovator, and, as she did so, she thought how 
hardly ])ressed wdth want or trouble a soul must be 
' to thrust itself on another in such a fashion. She of- 
fered a chair. Miss Bane sank into it. 

“ O, how comfortable ! How home-like ! What a 
deep, deep fire-place ! I’m so tired ! ” 

Miss Ewing had sat down also, gazing witli serious 
steadfastness on Miss Bane. Her would-be guest 
awakened her pity and contempt, and as these feelings 
took possession of her the indefinable fear that had 


A SELF-INVITED GUEST. 


99 


lurked in the background of lier consciousness fled. 
She softened so much that when Sophia came back to 
ask for further orders for the night the maid found 
lier mistress listening intently to a long, graphic, and 
very plausible story. 

“ It is late, I know, Sophia, but can’t you build a 
fire and make a cup of tea for — ” 

“ Cousin Jane — please say Cousin Jane.” 

‘‘For Miss Bane?” continued Phebe. “She has 
traveled from a place two hours west of Boston, and 
must be weary.” 

“ I thought you came from Boston, ma’am.” 

“ So I did, so I did — in a sense ! ” with a compla- 
cent giggle. “ I always say I’m from Boston ” — this 
confidentially to Phebe — “ with strangers ; it sounds 
better. Jonesville means absolutely nothing, as you 
must perceive, to the outside world. Such a dismal, 
dirty little squabbling place ! I suppose you always 
say you are from New York, don’t you ? ” — this 
persuasiveW. 

“ But I am not ! No ; I always say I live at Kil- 
lian Hook; and thee had better, I think, say thee is 
from Jonesville, since thee is.” On rare occasions 
Miss Ewing relapsed into the Quaker dialect. 

The traveler became silent. Miss Ewing sat 
thoughtfully gazing into the fire-place. The still- 
ness grew oppressive. 

Miss Bane drew near Phebe with a sudden expan- 
siveness of expression. “Cousin Phebe, I know 


100 


rSEBE. 


I had no right to take you unawares in this manner, 
but I am desperately poor. Wont you help me ? ” 

The wells of Phebe’s deep heart opened. She 
had never turned a deaf ear to any appeal. If the 
truth be told, it had seldom been necessary, or right 
to do so, for the poor of Killian Hook were very few, 
and of that upright, struggling sort that would sooner 
suffer than ask assistance. 

‘‘ I will, of course, but I must consider.” 

AV'hen Sophia returned with the tray containing 
the tea and delicious cold meat and bread and butter 
her mistress gave another order. 

‘‘Put water and towels in the little room over the 
pantries. Have Michael take Miss Bane’s trunk up 
there the first thing in the morning.” 

, Sophia was not displeased under the circumstances, 
for this chamber was near enough to her own for her 
to watch its occupant. 

“ Am I to be near you. Cousin Phebe ? ” 

“ You will be nearer Sophia than me. Ko one is 
ever afraid who is near Sophia.” 

The Scotchwoman flushed with this praise, for her 
mistress’s voice dwelt lovingly on her name. 

“ I know I should never be afraid if I slept in a 
room next to yours. Cousin Phebe. O, you look so 
— so reliable ! ” 

Miss Ewing made no reply. She was in far deeper 
sympathy with her maid’s misgivings than she would 
have admitted. 


A SELF-jyriTED GUEET. 


101 


Miss Bane ate lunch eagerly. She made no fur- 
ther effort at conversation. Phebe looked at her 
small, thin, claw-like hands, set on hairy little wrists, 
as she greedily and critically handled her food. 
There was something slovenly and wiry about her 
— a contradiction of terms, as if she might make the 
most of an opportunity one minute and nullify it the 
next. 

They parted soon after. Phebe said good-night 
with much sweetness and reserve, and Sopliia, after 
some necessary delay on Miss Bane’s part in pro- 
curing a few articles from the mountainous trunk, 
conducted her with grim satisfaction up the back 
stairs to her room. Her face darkened as she left the 
main house, but when her door was shut and the key 
cautiously turned she threw herself with animation 
into a chair, saying, “Well, I have wedged myself in, 
and heaven and earth can’t get me out till I am 
ready to go.” 

Sophia stood outside a long time listening, but 
without hearing enough to satisfy her curiosity or 
confirm her suspicions. She walked through the 
vacant chambers afterward, locking bureaus, and when 
she reached Miss Ewing’s door she knocked. 

“ Dear Miss Phebe, wont you lock yourself in ? ” 
she said, anxiously. “Your presentiment did come 
true. As sure as I’m standing here, evil is lodged 
in yonder room.” She pointed impressively to ‘the 
kitchen wing. 


102 


PHEBE. 


Pliebc smiled. It was only a coincidence. She 
will not do any harm to-nigbt, any way. She lias 
evidently come intending to stay ; but I will lock 
rny doors.” She drew Sophia’s florid cheek to her 
lips and kissed it, and the latter, after this mark of 
affection, not received since Phebe was a little child, 
retraced her steps with the determination to sleep in 
an arm-chair in the hall outside Miss Bane’s room. 



CHAPTER IX. 


OLD WAYS AND NEW. 

Mrs. Praed had invited Mabel to dinner at one 
o’clock, and that young lady, having promised to go, 
went, although reluctantly, for Newport gayeties 
were beginning in good earnest, and the society of 
the young will forever be in demand. 

It is onl}^ to those outside tlie cliarmed circle that 
the very name Newport means the vain show and 
glory of this world.” There are many elegant homes 
there where fashion does not reign supreme; much 
enjoyment of out-door life which does not signify 
polo or fox-hunting. Not all the flowers come from 
the florists ; not all the coachmen, grooms, and 
footmen belong to families of a day. In Newport, 
as every-where else, it is the ephemera that bask 
in the noonday glare of notoriety. It is the luxury 
and parade of the Casino that make more parade than 
the quiet companies in the quieter mansions. It is 
the floating population of the Ocean House, looking 
on at the driving, the dinner-giving, the card-playing, 
and the dancing, that carries away exaggerated no- 
tions of the city by the sea, where riches and riotous 
living go together and dissolute men and dissolute 
women make liirht of the sanctities of home. There 


104 


PIIEBE. 


is more than enough of life lived at high pressure 
there, sadly too much worshipy)f mammon, undeniably 
too much pseudo-respectability, that without riches 
would shi'inkto the slums where it belongs; and yet 
what a place it is for tine air and beautiful scenery and 
lovely people, and how every body intends, after all 
that is said, to see and know i^ewport for himself, if 
he can ! 

Mrs. Praed, on the day in question, was in a state 
of high dudgeon ; her social toes had been badly 
stepped on by Mrs. Merrill, the Korthrops’ neighbor ; 
and to Mabel the old lady poured out her wrath. 

If only each one had the courage to clear these 
murky atmospheres at the time they get foul, how 
much more quickly social vulgarities would disappear ! 
But conventionality so binds civilized humanity — and 
it pressed hardest where there is the finest breeding — 
that, as a rule, the vulgar get the best out of every 
situation, if the best means the gratification of sordid 
selfishness and the continual and blatant airino: of 
self-importance. 

Dear Mrs. Praed knew that she had no more bus- 
iness to drive with Mrs. Merrill than the pot of 
earth ” had to take a promenade with “ the pot of 
iron.’’ She had been a foolish enough old lady to do 
it,, and then, when her vulnerability had suffered, she 
was not quite frank enough to confess where the root 
of the fault lay. 

“ Why did you go. Cousin Emily ? ” asked Mabel, 


OLD lore AXD NEW. 


105 


with the real ingenuousness of her nature. ‘‘Mrs. 
Merrill is always doing dreadful things. Every body 
gives her good leeway, or just laughs at her rudenesses. 
What did she say or do that vexed you so much ? ’’ 

“ Well, you see, dearie,” replied Mrs. Praed, adjust- 
ing her cap-strings, “ on Monday morning her foot- 
man left a note as formally as you please, in which 
Mrs. Merrill asked me to drive with her at four yes- 
terday. I thought if she knew enough to invite me 
decently she knew enough to entertain me in the 
same way.” 

“ And it seems she didn’t,” said Mabel, soothingly. 

“ It seems she didn’t ; indeed, I knew what she 
wanted ; ” and the aged lady’s chin trembled ; “ she 
wanted to be Sjpen on Bellevue with somebody belong- 
ing to one of the old families — a sort of patent. She 
is having no end of trouble getting in with the nicest 
people. They say that the Merrills are sinking a 
fortune to do it.” 

“ O, as a matter of course, cousin. That is the 
recognized first step. Still, I am surprised that you 
accepted an invitation from her, with your ideas.” 

“ So am I, so am I, now ! I must be degenerating. 
We all are here, I am afraid. To think that people 
like the Merrills should succeed in the city of the 
Everetts, the ITewcomes, the — ” 

“What did she do?” 

“I’m coming to it. AVe started in fine style. I 
will say that she gave me the shady side of the vie- 


106 


PHEBE. 


toria. We were just fairly under way, and I all 
ready to see her in a more favorable light, when slie 
called to the coachman to drive into Beachwood. 
When we got there she fumbled under the cushions 
a while without finding what she wanted. She finally 
asked me to rise, and, turning up the cushion of my seat, 
took out a stack of invitations and sent one in by the 
footman. ‘ It is for a dinner-party,’ she said, blandly. 
Will you believe it, Mabel? she zigzagged me into 
every other house down the avenue to leave those in- 
vitations, and never gave me one ! I wouldn't have 
accepted — I hate long dinners — but all the same, to bo 
taken out, as I thought, for my pleasure, and then to 
be made a spectacle of, it was scandalous.” 

“ O, well, cousin, forget it. Mrs. Merrill no doubt 
thinks at this minute that you had a delightful time. 
I am sure she was as unconscious as a kitten of any 
intention to hurt you.” 

“But I am not half through. After we had dis- 
posed of the dinner-party we started on our drive in 
earnest. We had not gone far, though — the weather 
had been threatening all day — when it began to rain. 
You know how it poured, straight up and down. We 
were pretty well protected, but the men got a real 
ducking, and I could see that Mrs. Merrill was not 
anxious about them, but about their cream-colored 
livery. AYe drove back as fast as the horses could 
carry us, and when we were a block from the 
Merrills’ and two from here she asked me if I would 


OLD W*4r,sr AND NEW. 


107 


not go into her liouse and wait till the rain was 
over.” 

“ ‘ Thank ,yon,’ I replied ; ‘ I will be taken directly 
to my house.’ 

“ ‘ Heall}^, you must go in with me,’ she insisted. 
‘ The coachman and footman can’t stay out to go that 
distance.’ 

“ I made no reply. In we dashed through the gates, 
up under the jforte-cochere. Mr. Merrill was waiting 
outside, so anxious about those horses and suits. He 
helped his wife out, then offered his hand to me ; hut 
I said, ‘ Thank you, I wont get out.’ And there I 
sat, and tliere the liorses stood, the men looking fright- 
ened out of their wits ; and finally Mrs. Merrill said, 
‘ The rain is holding up ; take Mrs. Praed home, 
William’ — it was pouring just as hard as ever — and 
she kissed her hand to me, and I gave her a freezing 
bow — and O, how sweet my home did seem when I 
entered it ao^ain ! That is the last of the Merrills for 
me.” 

Mabel rose from her chair opposite her relative, 
and, going to the old lady, put her arm around her and 
kissed her. 

“ Indeed it was horrid ; I did think Mrs. Merrill 
knew^ a little better by this time. Why, she spent 
the season in London last year, and seems to have met 
a lot of great people, too.” 

‘‘She will never be more than she is — a vulgar 
woman with a mint of money.” 


lOS 


PHEBE. 


‘‘ Cousin Emily,” said M’abel, seriously, I sincerely 
pity our neighbor. I know she does not dream of 
being an object of pity ; but, all the same, she is. 
She is a victim to all sorts of nervous trouble, from 
the tremendous strain she is under. Perhaps she had 
a spell yesterday ; they say she is subject to the queer- 
est spells.” 

Mrs. Praed opened her eyes. 

“ IS’othing, certaiidy, but a spell of insanity or igno- 
rance would account for her. I haven’t any pity to 
waste on people like her, thougli — but there, I am 
ashamed of myself for talking so long on such a silly 
theme. How do you like these plates? 1 have put 
them on for the first time for you.” 

‘‘ They are exquisite ! ” She held her own to the 
light; the delicate china was translucent. A droop- 
ing pink rose, with a bud and leaves and briers, was 
painted on the center, while a fine beaded gold band 
finished the circumference. “They are simply per- 
fect ; not amateur work, I am sure.” 

“Ho; they came from Tiffany’s. I paid twenty- 
five dollars apiece for those plates. If you like them, 
Mabel, they are to be yours one of these days.” 

“May that day be far away. Cousin Emily!” and 
her candid face glowed with kindly warmth. “"I like 
to sec you keep up with the times. Ho one would 
dream of the wealth you have ; ” and the young girl 
glanced around the quietly appointed room. 

“ I would^ be ashamed if they did. Truly, dear, 


OLD WA YS AND NEW. 


109 


there is so much pomposity with wealth in these days 
that I am twice as ready to inquire into the honesty 
of tlie ricli as of tlie poor. I’d have to consider a long 
while before deciding to know a merely rich person.” 

“ O, Cousin Emily, you forget the Merrills.” 

‘‘ That was a weakness, for which I got my pay. 
You must admit Mrs. Merrill is a great curiosity^’ 

“ Ghe is. She is such a colossal humbug that I 
know you become acquainted with her just as you 
would with ‘ the greatest show on earth.’ ” 

That is it ! That is it ! ” 

“ Cousin Emily, why do you not have all the courses 
served from the butler’s pantry? We do, now.” 

“ What, don’t you help yourselves to any thing?” 

“!N’othing. We can give our whole attention to 
conversation then. It is awfully old-fashioned to 
serve the soup yourself, and to carve tlie meats, be- 
sides crowding the table \vith vegetables. One can’t 
produce any artistic effects with all the sehuge plat- 
ters and things taking up the room ; it interferes with 
one’s appetite to see such piles of food.” 

Mrs. Praed gazed at her visitor with a slight gath- 
ering flush. 

“ And do 3"Ou have a square yard of carpet spread 
down and a chair put on it for a guest when she ar- 
rives? Do you place one towel in her room, and 
when she is through with it give her a second, lest the 
sight of the furniture and the linen should make her 
think of the shops ? ” 


no 


PHEBE. 


Mabel laughed. “You told me that I was to keep 
you informed on fashions.’’ 

“ So I did, dearie ; but I do not like this new style 
with the table. It is like serving rations ; it is like a 
restaurant. What if some one wants a second plate 
of soup ? What is the head of the table for ? What 
if you wisli to make a meal of one thing ? ” 

“But, Cousin Emily, nobody is to take a second 
plate of soup ; and there are no heads and tails any 
more, in the old sense. How could there be with 
round tables, anyway ? The meal, the guests, the 
table, the conversation — these are a unit. It is very 
aesthetic. Just as soon as you get used to it you will 
like it. Of course,” added Mabel, solemnly, “every 
thing depends on having a good butler.” 

“ I would rather have a meal depend on an attent- 
ive host and hostess. I like, once in a while, to be 
just coaxed into taking more of something I’m fond 
of. I can understand” — and Mrs. Praed tossed her 
dignified head — “that it is an excellent way for those 
who are not to the manner born. They only have to 
eat what is put before them. But the old stjde, with 
the great silver tray and the tall urns and beautiful 
service, the roast done to a turn, the vegetables in 
quantity sufficient to show their quality, and soup 
enough for one not to feel afraid of a second serving 
— this is what I like ! ” 

“ I really like it, too — at your house — ^better than 
any other way, and I hope you will never change. I 


OLD AND NEW. 


Ill 


♦ 


was only telling you about more modern ways, you 
know.” 

“ Yes, I know ; but I sliall never change. I went 
to dinner at Mrs. Mortimer’s last Thursday. You 
know the Boston Mortimers. They have summered 
here for twenty years— know all the changes, know 
about every body. Mrs. Mortimer adopts all the new 
fads.” The corners of Mrs. Praed’s mouth drooped 
with a condescending smile as the Mortimer table 
rose to her mental view. 

“ The Mortimers are awfully swell. Cousin Emily. 
I wish I could be invited there.” 

‘‘ The same stock as Mr. Praed. Pie never felt 
nauseated over the style of his table, either ; took 
three plates of soup, too, when he wanted tliem, with- 
out an apology, and still had room for the other 
things. When we went out to dinner at the Morti- 
mers there was a round table set for six — nothing on 
it but a basin of lilies in the center and a dab of 
candy in a small silver dish there” — Mrs. Praed 
pointed to the north-east of her table — “ and a few 
olives ill another silver dish there” — pointing to the 
south-east — and some long things — bread-sticks, they 
called them — nothing but crust, baked to a chip, too, 
tied up with yellow ribbon, there ” — indicating an- 
other point of the compass — ‘‘ and a shell-shaped thing 
filled with salted almonds there ! and every body said, 
‘ IIow lovely ! ’ 6, there was a yellow flower at each 

plate^ and the china was white and yellow — every 


112 


FHEBE. 


: j'- 


tiling to match those lilies. IN'ow, I think the food 
should have matched right through — yellow and white 
eggs, silver cake, cream cheese, white bread with the 
crust cut off, carrots. The room should have been 
decorated in white and gold for the occasion. The 
butler ought to have been a Saxon with blonde hair, 
and he should have worn a snow-white toga — ” 

‘‘ Why, Cousin Emily, you have given me an idea ! 
ni have a lunch, as sure as you live, with the food to 
match, too, before the summer is over. Wont I 
make poor Henri groan over this fashion which I 
shall set, thanks to you ? *’ 

“Henri! Who’s Henri ? ” 

“ O, he is our chef. We have come to one at last. 
Poor mamma needed him to mention eri ^areniheseP 

“ A¥hat do you pay him \ ” 

“ Only a hundred a month. Don’t tell for the 
world. It is said we pay him three, and it is just as 
well to let people think so if they want to.” 

“ Does he really cook well ? ” 

“ He really does; as well, almost, as Judith.” 

“You paid her twenty.” 

“Yes; but Judith is a woman, and colored. Col- 
ored servants are so out of fashion now ; they suggest 
boarding-houses. So papa set Judith up in a small 
cabin north of the Harlem, and she is as happy as a 
queen.” 

Just here the door-bell rang, and a maid presently 
entered to tell Mabel that she had been sent for. 


V 


OLD WAYS AXB XEW. 


113 


She found Hannah waiting for her in the hall. 
The woinairs pale face was aglow with happy ex- 
citement. 

As they walked toward home Hannah said, You 
were asking me about my ribbon and cross, miss. I 
told you what they meant, but I didn’t tell you any 
thing about the order.” 

“ The order ! ” 

“ Yes, the order which wears the cross and ribbon — 
the Order of the King’s Daughters. I’m a member 
of it, and it is to have a grand meeting here this 
afternoon at five o’clock. Mrs. Yan Yleet is a mem- 
ber, too.” 

She gazed at Hannah in astonishment. “ I never 
heard of this order.” 

“ If you’ll excuse me. Miss Korthrop, that seems 
strange ; for there are a hundred and fifty thousand 
of us now, and we are a-growin’ all the time. Mrs. 
Yan Yleet has thrown open her grounds for the 
ineetin’, and she’s got King’s Daughters, what are 
speakers, to bo there ; and she’s invited all her friends 
to come. Every King’s Daughter in Newport, be she 
who she may, if she wears this cross and ribbon, she 
can get in. The cross is the passport. The presi- 
dent of the whole order, Mrs. Charteris, is a-goin’ to 
speak.” 

Why, we haven’t been invited.” 

“ Yes, excuse me, miss, you have. Mrs. Yan Yleet’s 

maid left an invitation for you an hour ago,, with an 
8 


114 


PHEBE. 


apology for its coinin’ so late ; and that is why your 
mamma sent me after you so early.” 

Mabel was pleased. The Yan Yleet place was one 
of the most extensive and beautiful on the cliffs. An 
afternoon meeting in those grounds would be a nov- 
elty, better than lawn tennis — Mabel had never en- 
joyed springing like a goat after a ball — better than 
sitting perched on a drag in a broiling sun watching 
polo ; better, even, for a change, than the concerts at 
the Casino. 

“ What do you have to do, Hannah, to be a mem- 
ber?” 

“ You just have to begin to do something for some 
one in the name of the Lord Jesus, and keep on 
a-doin’ each day — jest in his name — ^that’s all! ” 

‘AYhat do you do, Hannah?” 

‘‘ It’s very hard, miss, for me to be on my feet, and 
particularly to go up and down stairs. It used to 
make me so ill-tempered to step, step all day long. 
How I take all my steps for Christ’s sake. It makes 
such a difference ; it isn’t hard any more.” 

For the first time Mabel noticed Hannah’s short- 
ness of breath. Latent in her memory before, but 
vivid now, were the ceaseless demands that were 
made from morning till night on the strength of this 
pale woman. 

should think you would have to love Jesus very 
much, Hannah.” 

“It’s the doin’ for him has made me love him so, 


OLD AND NEW. 


115 


niifes. I begin to think that’s the secret of all love. 
An’ he don’t let it go unnoticed. I can’t tell you 
how, miss, but from the minute I really began to 
step for him he began speakin’ to me. JS^ow I know 
him. It’s eas}^ service.” 

She felt rebuked once more by Hannah’s words. 
Tliis time she was inclined to ponder more seriously 
on the vapidity of her life and the utter absence from 
it of any other motive than the pursuit of pleasure. 

The young girl was not altogether in fault for the 
w’ant of any lofty aim in her life. She had never 
been taught either the sweetness or the duty of min- 
istering. She had been told morning, noon, and night 
tliat health and beauty were the two requisites of a 
young lady’s life, until any thing tliat tended to per- 
fect these undoubted blessings seemed to her pre-em- 
inently praiseworth3\ So she had grown into woman- 
hood thinking that she was virtuous if she set study 
aside because her head felt heavy ; if she made Han- 
nah or the other servants anticipate any help she might 
give herself, lest she should grow too tired ; if she slept 
till noon, because she felt indolent ; if slie sent a maid 
to inquire after her mother’s health, lest ’the stairs 
should make her out of breath. All had done for her 
irrespective of their health or beauty. The only rec- 
ompense she had ever bestowed was to say conde- 
scendingljq ‘‘I feel well to-day, thanks ; ” ‘‘Every 
body thought I looked my best at the ball,” etc. To 
her mother, eager that Mabel should be called a belle 


116 


PIIEBE. 


and make a fine marriage, this was sufficient. Toiler 
father, immersed in speculation, it meant about as 
much as the liealth and appearance of his stud. Some- 
times, when the girl heard Mrs. Nortlirop descanting 
on lier physical charms and. Mr. I^orthrop analyzing 
similar attractions in the horses, she wondered if to 
the majority in Newport society pretty w^omeii and 
beautiful horses were not of about equal importance 
to the destiny of humanity. 

It was with an earnest longing, therefore, for some- 
thing more tangible and lofty as an incentive that she 
made preparations to accompany her mother to Mrs. 
Yan Yleet’s. 

The air had a delightful, spicy coolness. The gay 
holiday look of the few blocks of stores, breaking the 
vista of handsome residences on Bellevue Avenue, the 
dark foliage of the fine shade- trees, the beautiful equi- 
pages occupied by smiling, elegantly dressed women, 
the absence of poverty, sordidness, ugliness, in this 
fair showing, led Mabel to fancy that only King’s 
Daughters, if royal attire marked them, must form 
that summer afternoon procession of which she was 
almost daily a part. 

She was a girl for any mother to be proud of as she 
sat beside Mrs. Northrop in their victoria. Hannah 
had started an hour before, saying that the walk of 
two miles would do her good. Mabel wondered if it 
were that mysterious good of which the maid had 
spoken, and it had never occurred to her heretofore 


OLD WA YS AND NEW. 


117 


sluggish thought, so entirely relegating servants to 
another scale of physical comfort, to suggest that one 
of the many idle hors,es should be fastened to a bugiry 
to take Hannah to the Van Vleet grounds. 

To see Mabel driven down that stately avenue 
would be to behold such a lovely girl tliat the only 
l^ossible notion the onlooker could frame would be 
that she was as good as she was beautiful. She wore 
a dress of white India silk ; a scarf of the same soft 
material was loosely knotted on her bosonr, its creatny 
fringe following the curve of her tine shoulders. Her 
white bonnet, wdth its setting of mignonette about the 
face, and her white lace parasol, lined with the deli- 
cate green of the ilowers, offered an effect as pure and 
virginal as the Parisian costumer had sought when 
this pretty outfit was designed. 

When they reached the open gates of South Point 
the scene presented a motley aspect. The drive was 
thronged with pedestrians, and for a few minutes the 
carriages were blocked. 

Mabel saw hundreds of the square silver crosses; 
they were worn by women of all sorts and condition's. 
A burning desire seized her, reared in ultra-exclusive- 
ness, and knowing hardly any thing outside the narrow 
boundaries of the fashionable world, to belong to an 
order that gathered in the poor and lowly as well as 
the high and wealthy. 

The grounds of South Point covered a higher ele- 
vation than there was elsewhere along the cliffs. Afar 


118 


PHEBE. 


off stretched the open sea. The incoming tide struck 
the shore with a wild glee and swept under an arti- 
ticial bridge spanning the distance from one ledge to 
another, and sent the spray in a tall column into the 
air. The lawn was dotted wdth groups of w^omen who 
gradually gathered under the protection of a large 
tent whose carpeted floor and comfortable scats af- 
forded both rest and protection. Mabel looked around 
for Hannah, and she felt glad when she saw the maid 
sitting neai* the table, evidently designed for the presi- 
dent of the order. 

Some crank ! ” said the 3"oung girl all to herself, 
and yet she was watchful, secretly hoping that she 
would be disappointed. 

Presently there was a general movement to the tent. 
Then Mabel saw Mrs. Yan Yleet issue from the house 
with a tall lady who eV-en from a distance embodied 
energy and enthusiasm. This personality was in it- 
self refreshing, for nobody in Newport, except very 
young girls, had an air of surplus vitality — of a great 
deal of self royally to be given away. 

Hannah looked eagerly around, and when the skirts 
of the tall lady brushed her she gently and timidly 
put out her hand and felt of themj as if even they 
would bring spiritiial consolation. 

Mabel, too, was not far away from the table. As she 
gazed at the strong, weary, but soulful face of the 
speaker, and noticed the quick arching of the nervous 
brow, the soft abundance of the waving iron gray hair, 


OLD WA VS AND NFIK 


119 


tlic flaslies of liglit, humorous, pathetic, and sweet, 
from a pair of deeply set' black eyes, all slie cared for 
was to catcli eveiy word that miglit fall from Mrs. 
Charteris’s lips. Only the Sunday before slie had sat in 
the chapel famous as the resort of Newport’s wealth 
and fashion, and heard the godly resident bishop speak 
words of grace, wisdom, and plain truth ; but she had 
only half listened. They seemed hut a fitting part of 
the service. Few looked as if that sermon were meant 
for them. It drifted into and out of the young girl’s 
mind like a dream. 

Here, with the wail of the ocean sounding like 
the tramp of an army, with the out-door smells bur- 
dening the atmosphere with perfume, with these 
hundreds seated promiscuously together and hanging 
on the words of one woman — here, it was different. 
The novelty of the scene compelled her attention. 

“ My friends,” said Mrs. Charteris, and she spread 
out both hands in a feminine, appealing manner, we 
are here in the name of the King, Christ Jesus. Why 
have we gathered in his name? To study dogma, to 
measure how much or how little light has shined into 
the world since he came, to gauge the quality of the 
oil each one of our lamps holds, to find out whether 
the oil that keeps them burning is Methodist oil or 
Presbyterian oil or Episcopal oil ? O no, no ! All we 
want to know is whether these lamps will burn if 
lighted by the match of his name. ‘In his name’ 
we are Iiere ; in our King’s name, we his subjects and 






120 rilEBE. 

diiTigliters have assembled, to ask for work to do for 
liiin, to ask for grace to live for Jiim, to ask for inspi- 
ration to see him and know liiin as he is, when lie 
lifts the veil hiding that beauty which once looked 
upon will make us too ^ all glorious within.’ Let us 
pray.” 

Mabel sat bolt upright during the prayer. She 
watched the suppliant somewhat as she would a 
]U’estidigitateur. She saw and heard nothing to 
offend the perfect uprightness of her sincere nature. 
Sincerity was so strong a trait in her character that 
she had thus far, even in the highly artificial life she 
had led, escaped the petty prevarications that some- 
times follow in the wake of excessive conventionality. 
As she listened she was touched — touched with the 
universal need embodied in that simple, child-1 ike 
. prayer. How child-like the smile, too, on that grand, 
strong face ! How tender the accent in that rich, 
penetrating voice ! Then she decided for the same 
reason that half the people in the world decide to do 
a thing, just because she had come under strong per- 
sonal influence, to become a “King’s Daughter.” 
This natural, reverent, devout woman was a “ King’s 
Daughter ; ” she therefore would be one too. Han- 
nah’s analysis, moreover, of the reason for the Order 
of the King’s Daughters satisfied her. 

To do, rather than to say. So many people that 
she knew could talk delightfully, but to be a doer in 
His name ! How such action would exclude selfish- 


V 


OLD WA YS AND NFAV. 


121 


ness, display, bigotry, self-rigbteonsness ! AYliy, the 
idea was inspiring! “ What shall I do? What can 
I do ? ” thought the young girl. With her charac- 
teristic sense she decided that if Hannah could step 
all day, in his name, for others, she would begin 
by listening, in his name, to the daily story of her 
mother’s aches and pains. It was what she ran away 
from every chance she could get. “I’ll hear mamma 
out every single time for a week, and I’ll step f(W her 
too ! ” She shut her lips together iirmly. 

It sounds like a very little thing to minister to one 
need of one person, but Mabel had chosen no easy 
task. 

As soon as she had decided to be a “ King’s Daugh- 
ter” she longed to know the president of the order. 
When the meeting was dispersing, but not until many, 
many had received a kind word of encouragement, and 
all had heard of methods of working in small bands 
of ten for the poor, for the sick, for criminals, for 
friends, for enemies, and for, their own characters, 
with the simple talisman, “ In Ilis name,” she drew 
near Mrs. Van Yleet, and, tucking her hand in that 
lady’s, said : 

“ Please introduce me. I want to join too.” 

“ Keally ? I am delighted ! Mrs. Charteris, this 
young friend of mine. Miss Korthrop, wishes to join.” 

The black eyes glowed with pleasure, and rested 
with maternal fondness on the clear, fresh countenance 
upturned to her. 


122 


PHEBE. 


Are you ready to work ? ” 

Yes.” 

“For Him?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Do you love him ? ” 

“ !Not 3’et. I believe in liim.” 

“ You will love him also, just as soon as you know 
him. Ilis work reveals him to each King’s Daughter ; 
how it does is his personal secret with every follower. 
Only be faithful to the work in his name and you 
will know the precionsness of his love. Kever, 
though, for one minute do the work in your own 
name.” 

“ When do you think I shall know him ? ” 

The black eyes swept the sea and tlie earth a trifle 
puzzled momentarilj". Then the strong countenance 
lighted with a trul}^ ravishing smile as the wind came 
sweeping through the tent with the melodj-^ of a 
song. 

“ Do 3mu hear that ? ‘ The wind bloweth where it 

listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst 
not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth : so is 
every one that is born of the Spirit.’ The wind was 
not here five minutes ago. .Now it is here in refresh- 
ing earnest. It will be like the coming of this fresh, 
pure breeze. You will know him all at once, some 
day, as he is! just as he is! AYatch and pray and 
work.” 

“ AVhat about those who do not believe in Jesus 


OLD WAYS AXD XEW. 


123 


as divine, but admire liis life and character ? I do 
believe in him, but what if I did not ? ” 

“ There is no difficulty whatever in such a state. 
Whoever walks prayerfully in his footsteps is bound, 
sooner or later, to receive a revelation of grace 
through him, and in that revelation to recognize him 
as one with the Father. After Christ went back to 
the Father the Comforter came — the Holy Spirit — in 
his stead ; and whoever works for Christ in doing so 
receives the Comforter. With the gift of that divine 
influence, illumination of the Spirit must follow. No 
one can receive it in Christ’s service without receiv- 
ing also the blessed conviction that he is ‘ the true 
Light which lighteth every man that cometli into the 
world.’ Whoever receives the baptism of the Spirit 
sees Christ in his true proportions, for not until after 
he ascended did or could the Comforter, which is the 
Holy Ghost, descend. Clirist foretold the Comforter. 
The Comforter reveals Christ. The beginning of 
faith oftentimes is works, but, of course, works with- 
out faith are void. They never continue, without it, 
in times of spiritual drought. Abiding works must 
be fed from the ‘springs of living water.’ Faith and 
works, while separable logically, are manifestations of 
one and the same thing. As the work grows faith 
grows, and each is of God. This is all there is to 
the question — not very hard to begin with, is it ? ” 
Mabel smiled, but thought the new way was hard 
to understand. She stood very still while the narrow 


124 


PHEBE. 


purple ribbon was fastened in her button-hole. On 
the way home she saw little else than the three letters 
“ I. H. N.” cut into her Maltese cross. 

But before they drove home she took: a short walk 
with Mrs. Charteris, while her mother lingered for a 
little personal conversation with Mrs. Yan Yleet. 

They walked to the edge of a frowning precipice 
of black rock, nothing between them and the sheer 
descent of two hundred feet but a narrow railing. 
Mrs. Charteris looked thoughtfully down upon the 
tossing, foaming sea below. The tide was coming in, 
and bits of wood and pieces of sea-weed, the refuse 
of some distant storm, lashed those inflexible rocks, 
then disappeared in a whirlpool, and again came up 
only to perform the same ceaseless task. 

“ That is life. The same thing over and over until 
the great outgoing tide of death sweeps us into the 
mid-ocean of eternity. It would be pretty dark — a 
wild, rough outlook — without Christ, dear.” 

Mrs. Charteris turned around and surveyed the 
beautiful grounds in which art and nature had blended 
a landscape in harmony with the sea and in touch 
with the great stone hall before them. 

This is an exquisite place, isn’t it, my dear ? It 
has done me great good to be here. To think that 
this rough point of land could be so redeemed ! May 
His Spirit work just as great a change in our charac- 
ters, making us all glorious within ! Such a lesson as 
I have learned from this house and these grounds ! 


OLD WAYS AND NEW. 


125 


Sonic one* has said that all there is of life is what 
you get out of it. So I am getting rich, for I get a 
great deal out of life, and I hope on the rougli point 
of my life the palace of character will he built. That 
is all that is enduring.’^ 

It was refreshingly new to Mabel to take part in a 
conversation that had nothing whatever in it of social 
ambition. With quick perceptions and much depth 
but slowness of feeling, she had fortunately fallen 
under the right influence, an influence of blended en- 
thusiasm, devotion, and sound common sense. 

When they reached home Mrs. IS'orthrop sank into 
an easy-chair in the library and began untying her 
bonnet-strings. 

“ 'Well, Mabel, another engagement met. Ring for 
Hannah, please, to come take my wraps. I’m too 
utterl}^ exhausted to go up-stairs.” 

‘‘ I’ll take your things, mamma ; ” and she began 
gently to draw a bead cape from Mrs. Horthrop’s 
shoulders. 

“ Why, Mabel, don’t. You must be tired, too.” 

“ I’m never tired, mamma. Why should a servant 
do every thing for you ? I think I’d love you more, 
mamma, if I waited on you a little.” 

Mrs. Northrop regarded Mabel as if she were a 
moral phenomenon. She had two commandments, so 
to speak, which she had imposed on herself ; one was 
to please her husband, 'the other was to give her 


* Mrs. F. Bottome. 


126 


PHEBE. 


daiigliter a good time. JS^eitlier husband nor dangli- 
ter had appeared to realize the extent of her efforts ; ^ 
but she had only met with the reward that usually 
comes to a person who unreasonably obliterates herself. 

Mabel’s cool, deft fingers soothed her neuralgic face 
as they came in contact with it while taking off her 
bonnet.' And those clear blue eyes, so honest, so 
calm, gave her for the first time in her life the feel- 
ing of willing dependence on a child which is as sweet 
■ to a parent as a like feeling is to a woman toward her 
lover. 

It was wonderful how that one little act, done de- 
liberately in Plis name, revealed to Mabel the delight 
of ministering. She was amazed that her superabun- 
dant strength and vitality had never before found this 
outlet. 

When she was undressing that night she called 
Hannah into her room. 

“ See, Hannah, see my cross and ribbon. I am a 
King’s Daughter too. I have only done one trifling 
thing yet, but I found it delightful when performed 
for Him.” 

“ You will like the service better and better, miss. 
Of course it is an up-hill and a down-hill service, both. 
But I’m never so far down-hill, ma’am, never in 
such a deep valley, but what I know his sun is shin- 
ing, if I will only climb high enough to see it.” 

“ What a little thing sets one to thinking, Hannah. 
First, there was a book I chanced to pick up after the 


OLD WAYS AND NEW. 


127 


lunch we gave not long ago ; then yon dropped a few 
words; then this meeting at Mrs. Yan Yleet’s. oc- 
curred. Altogether tliey have done what church- 
going never effected for me.” 

‘‘ You must not speak slightingly of church-going, 
Miss Mabel — excuse me. Perhaps the seed would 
not ’a’ fallen into good ground unless the soil had 
been a-preparin’ ever since you was so high.” Han- 
nah measured with her hand a very small child indeed. 

‘‘ From your own tell, ma’am, you’ve been a-goin’ 
to church ever since you was six year old. I know 
Mrs. Charteris would be sorry to think that you 
slighted, even in your thought, the regular means o’ 
grace. The courts of the Lord are very sacred to 
King’s Daughters.” 

She was astonished at this long, plain sermon from 
Hannah ; but the maid spoke so gently and appealingly 
that she was pleased to find somebody who would tell 
a young lady of her consequence the simple truth. 

“ It is all so new to me, Hannah, that I know I 
shall make lots of mistakes. I truly mean to perse- 
vere. Good-night, Hannah.” 

“ Good-night, ma’am.” 

“ Hannah ! O Hannah ! ” as the maid was walk- 
ing down the hall. 

She came back. Her young mistress flushed a lit- , 
tie and paused before speaking. 

“ Hannah, will you pray for me ? ” 


128 


rUEBE. 


CHAPTEE X. 

A KIVAL. 

There was to be a tournament on the polo-grounds. 
Mr. Swape had invited both Beatrice and Mabel to 
front seats on his drag, and they were proud and 
happy. As Harry Birdsall was to ride on the ^ide of 
the blues, they wore his color. 

They were late in entering the grounds. The great 
inclosure vras gay with horses mounted by men most 
of whom were line equestrians. The drive around 
the polo-grounds was tilled with elegant equipages. 
As Mr. Swape, amiable and complacent as usual, 
guided his four chestnuts to a Vantage-ground the 
girls looked eagerly from side to side, recognizing 
many friends and elated over being mounted on the 
most noted drag in Newport. 

Beatrice felt serenely in her element beside a king 
of finance, and Mabel, well pleased not to have to 
entertain the man at her right, who was a devotee 
of polo and temporarily incapacitated from taking 
part because of a sprained wrist received in a recent 
game, gave her attention to people in general, which 
had always thus far very well suited her cool, prac- 
tical temperament. 

Outside the grounds and lining the fence were 


II 


RIVAL. 129 

lnmili*eds of the great uiiwaslied, or great unknown, 
viewing the game with as eager interest, betting just 
as desperately according to their means, as those in- 
side, and as ardent champions of orange or blue as 
thougli their own especial friends were seated on the 
spirited ponies. 

“You see,” said Mr. Swape, for the hundredth 
time to Beatrice, who listened as blandly as though 
she had not heard the game repeatedly explained, 
“ it is simply plajdng ball on horseback — playing ball 
on horseback, that’s it ! ” 

“ I should like it better,” said Mabel, leaning over 
to him, “if the participants were centaurs.” 

“ Senters, senters ? — h’m, yes — I suppose so ! But 
they go for it, now don’t they, as well as send it. 
Hah, yes — senders ! I like that ! ” 

Beatrice rolled her eyes resignedly at Mabel. 

Harry Birdsall, on a jet-black pony — both pony and 
rider were supple, eager, and swift — saw his friends. 
Every stroke of his mallet was given to win theif 
praise. 

He was precisely the type of young man to please 
a youthful beauty. Beatrice sighed gently as she 
gazed at him, and wished either that Mr. Swape had 
his dashing looks and manner, or that he was tlie pos- 
sessor of Mr. Swape’s fortune. He had made small 
headway with his black eyes and fierce mustache 
and confident manner when drags and yachts and 

stately homes were in the balance, and while Beatrice 
9 


130 


PUEBE. 


liad not discouraged his attentions, even the bold 
Harry liad not*yet dared risk his present modicum 
of happiness by a proposal. So he rode for Beatrice, 
nearly losing his balance for her in his reckless dashes 
and retreats, curveted, made alarmingly short turns, 
drove the ball farther and farther in with every stroke 
he made, outdistanced every orange man, and finally, 
with one last effort which gave the blues the victory, 
rose on his pony, waved his cap gallantly to the 
Swape party, and aniid cheers and claps left the arena 
the victor of the day. 

Mr. Swape clapped tremendously. 

A magnificent fellow, aint he, now ? I would not 
be afraid to trust my mare Sally with him. He’s 
what might be called a sender and goer both, aint he, 
Miss Horthrop.” 

“Yes, indeed,” murmured IMabel, as the hero, 
coming to her side of the drag, talked to her, but 
looked at Beatrice. 

Mabel perfectly understood that Beatrice did not 
dare trust herself with Harry, lest she should betray 
her affection. Mr. Swape, sublimely skeptical of the 
possibility of a competitor, jd raised the polo victor 
more and more vociferously. That young man, 
capable of gormandizing flattery to any extent, non- 
chalantly acknowledged the tribute, while he listened 
eagerly for just one word from Beatrice. 

Coldness and reserve were Beatrice’s tarnhutte^ 
and while she smiled with serene approval, as* Mr. 


A RIVAL. 


131 ^' 


Swape’s encomiums waxed liotter and louder, the sur- 
face of her feeling was no more ruffled, apparently, 
than the plumage of a white swan touched by a sum- 
mer zephyr. 

The coolness and elegance of this blonde made 
Birdsall desperate. What if he were only a professor 
in a western college, summering with a Cambridge 
savant at I^s^ewport for the purpose of geologizing? 
What was an old fossil like Mr. Swape compared with 
him — a Harvard man, the best polo-player in New- 
port — and with moderate expectations, too, of a fort- 
une from a bachelor uncle one of these days. lie 
would compel Beatrice to give up the cracker king 
for him ; yes, he would. His black eyes shot a glance 
of unconscious, contemptuous warning at kindly 
Matthew Swape, whose gaze that minute was resting 
oil Beatrice’s faultlessly gloved hands. 

Harry came around to her side of the drag all 
at once. “ I should like to call on you this even- 
ing, if you will be at home.” There was an inten- 
sity in this commonplace remark that sent a quiver 
of both pleasure and dread through the haughty 
girl. 

“ I’ll have to be the man to disappoint you,” said 
Mr. Swape, triumphantly. “ Miss Olyphant is going 
to take a moonlight Avalk with me on the cliffs, aren’t 
you ? ” and he slapped bis knee. 

Beatrice’s eyes dilated with astonishment at his au- 
dacity, then her lids drooped languidly as she said. 


132 


PHEBE. 


“ I believe I am, although I had forgotten about it. 
Some other time with you, perhaps, Mr. Birdsall.” 

“I’d like a moonliglit walk on the cliifs,” cried 
Mabel, laughingl)^ Ilarry glanced at her, bowed, 
and replied, “ Command me. Miss N^orthrop,” as lie 
caught her expression, full of mischief and invitation. 
He saw and recognized her championship of his cause* 

Mr. Swape, unconscious of conspiracy, said, “ Per- 
haps we shall meet.” 

“ Perhaps we shall,” answered Harry, wdth an air 
that overwhelmed Beatrice’s inward calm. 

“ Birdsall versus Swape,” whispered Mabel to Harry, 
as he returned to her for a minute, before with:lraw- 
iug. His eyes, full of defiance, seconded her remark. 

Mr. Swape touched his leader lightly with the whip. 
The great yellow vehicle of catafalque proportions 
started. Harry Birdsall lingered behind, watching 
the white ostrich feathers of Beatrice’s hat till they 
disappeared outside the gates. 

With three inward cheers for Mabel he started for 
home and a bath. At eight o’clock, refreshed and 
liandsome, and having borrowed the savant’s dog-cart, 
he called for his champion, and shortly after, with 
Hannah clinging to the rumble as a swallow clutches 
a chimney-side, they turned down one of the long, 
wide avenues leading to the cliffs. 

The moon was at the full ; its light mottled the 
ground beneath the trees and gave the great stretches 
of lawn on either side of the avenue an unwonted 


A RIVAL. 


133 


beauty. Palatial villas, red brick halls built after 
English manors, and an occasional spreading Queen 
Anne domicile were wrapped in the quiet and warmth 
of a midsummer night. 

Mabel had never looked more beautiful. The red 
India shawl about her shoulders, the scarlet poppies 
in her hat, gave brilliancy to her delicate face. Be- 
tween her and Harry there was a sense of comrade- 
ship that made them like boy and girl together. 

“ I think we would better go in here ; we can cross 
the Darlington lawn — there is a good walk tliat will 
bring us out where we can see a mile either way — and 
we shall be able to tell whether Beatrice and Mr. 
Swape have started yet.” Harry helped Mabel to de- 
scend, and gave the reins to Hannah, whom her mis- 
tress adjured not to stir till they came back. 

When they reached the cliff path there were many 
others abroad enjoying the superb evening. Hot 
feeling sure whether they distinguished their friends 
or not, they turned southward. 

The soft salt breeze blew steadily in their faces. 
It caught the straight folds of Mabel’s white dress. 
She looked beautiful. If she had not had quite such 
a practical, well-balanced air, Harry thought she 
would be a girl for a man to fall in love with ; there 
was something, though, about Beatrice’s sleepy loveli- 
ness that afforded an endless play to the imagination. 

As they walked on Mabel’s mind reverted to the 
new motive that had crept into her life. She looked 


134 


PUEBE. 


lip at the vast arch of the pale blue skj, dotted with 
innumerable stars ; out upon the endless stretch of 
water, smooth as glass, and streaked with the shining 
track of the moon. The ethereal aroma of a flower- 
ing honeysuckle came and went as tlie wind rose 
or sank. The muffled break of the waves against 
the rocks, the swaying of the sea-weed in shallow 
places visible here and there, the wide space and 
beauty every-where, lifted her heart to the Maker 
of the world, and she sighed that her life was com- 
posed of just such little follies as the one she was 
engaged in. ^ 

‘‘ There ! look there ! ” and Harry called her atten- 
tion to a couple standing on a high bluff a half mile 
away. ‘‘Isn’t that Miss Olj^phantJ” 

“ I think so ; yes, 1 am sure,” adjusting a small field- 
glass. “ They are just beyond Beatrice’s favorite spot 
on all the cliffs. I wish we could get there first. Let 
us walk faster.” 

Then began one of those rapid, speechless walks, 
so delightful when health and an object are acces- 
sories. The path wound in and out. at the foot of 
beautiful lawns ; it climbed along the edge of high 
terraces whose well-mown slopes are the terror and 
the fascination of casual visitors ; it sank down near- 
ly to the level of high tides, and in such places Mabel 
walked fearlessly on the very edge of the sea-wall, 
delightedly inhaling the air surcharged with the 
delicious tonic of salt and winds traversing unoc- 


A RIVAL, 


135 


ciipied space for thousands of miles. They ascended 
stairs cut in the rocks, crossed the weird bridge of 
the Y an Yleet place, skirted ledges seamed with tlie 
glacial conflicts of remote ages, and, suddenly bend- 
ing to the right, they came to the edge of a deep, 
wide-spreading depression, its Y-shape protected by 
a sea-wall, tlie sloping sand bare at low tide and 
brown with great masses of sea-weed and picturesque 
with bowlders. On the further side of the depres- 
sion tliere was a broad, natural seat in the rock, 
bounded on either side by the wall. On this seat 
Mabel and Beatrice had spent many an hour build- 
ing castles as fragile as the shapes of the waves 
washed in the sand, watching the tide set the beauti- 
ful green and yellow grasses and ferns afloat, and 
noting the height of the tide as one bowlder after 
another disappeared. Forty or fifty feet out was a 
huge round rock, shaped like a head, a little higher 
than any of the others. The sea-weeds formed a 
long fringe around its base. Its top was shining and 
bald as a venerable pate. The girls had named the 
rock “ Old Baldy,” and many had been their eulogies 
as Baldy’s friends succumbed one after another to 
the waves, and he still lifted a portion of his crown 
as if defying the ocean. Only in the very highest 
tides did Baldy sink out of sight. 

As Mabel and Harry appeared on the edge of the 
cup-like depression they saw Beatrice and Mr. Swape 
seated on the ledge. The whole scene was flooded 


186 


PHEBE. 


with the brilliant moonlight. It revealed Old Baldy, 
his sea-weed hair just beginning to float on tlie 
in-coming tide. It struck Mr. Swape’s head with the 
same discerning effulgence, for he had taken off his 
hat, and, while revealing his age, it wrapped Beatrice 
in such a soft glamour that her companion appeared 
relatively venerable and fatherly. 

“It would be a sin. Miss Northrop, for that beauti- 
ful girl to marry Swape. If she loved him ! But she 
doesn’t, she loves me! You would not think his 
fortune could tempt her, with all there is in the other 
scale.” 

She gently shook her head, as if ingenuously 
doubting. 

“ The fortune is potent, Mr. Birdsall. It appeaTS 
to be the universal opinion that Mr. Swape has simply 
to choose. I cannot begin to mention the Newport 
people I have heard envy Beatrice her conquest. 
However, I don’t think that he has fully made 
up his mind yet. You would think to-night would 
help him ; wouldn’t you. He can defy tides as well 
as Old Baldy. Would you not think that our Nept- 
une was his effigy ? ” 

Harry looked at Baldy, then at Mr. Swape, and, 
laughing, said, “I’ll make Beatrice see the resem- 
blance so forciblv that she will never foro:et it.” 

By this time Mr. Swape had recognized them, and, 
being a man honest enough with himself never to try 
to make love if he did not feel it, and only enjoying 


A RIVAL. 


187 


Beatrice as lie did the air and the moonlight, he was 
just beginning to feel sadly talked out when the others 
appeared. 

“ Here you are at last ! Glad to see you.” 

‘‘ I hope we are not de said Harry, stiffly. 

In the way, I believe that means, doesn’t it. Miss 
Olyphant ? Ho, we’re glad of company. The more 
the merrier ! ” 

Beatrice pouted a little. She did not fancy appear- 
ing so thoroughly uninteresting as this remark would 
imply. Bising, she said, haughtily, 

“ I’ll relieve you, Mabel ; see if you can entertain 
Mr. Swape.” 

Why, I didn’t mean that ! I didn’t mean that. 
Miss Olyphant. I found you charming — yes — very ! ” 

Harry had stepped to Beatrice’s side, his black eyes 
saying all that literal Matthew Swape had left unsaid. 
Mabel relinquished her escort willingly. She imme- 
diately began to expatiate on the beauties of the night 
to Mr. Swape. She naively asked him after a while if 
he exported many crackers, the sea suggesting the 
question, she added. She launched him on financial 
statistics so thoroughly that Beatrice and Harry were 
far out of hearing and almost out of sight on the 
projecting ledges before the mature suitor perceived it. 

See here, see here ! I can’t allow that ! ” and he 
pointed to two figures going down the rocks and 
apparently into the ocean. ‘‘ Looks as if they intended 
to commit suicide. Let us follow.” 


138 


PHEBE. 


“Would you object, Mr. Swape, if I sat down and 
rested just a few minutes ? rni awfully tired.” She 
saidc on the vacant seat. 

But he was restless, just as he had often been 
before when, having set a certain .valuation on 
a horse, another bidder had suddenly come forward 
and oifered a higher price. The longer Beatrice lin- 
gered below that ledge with Mr. Birdsall the higher 
she rose in Mr. Swape’s estimation. Mabel, seeing 
this, and knowing that wdiichever way the wind blew 
it would bring pleasure to Beatrice, amiably kept 
her company aloof, at the risk of incurring his dis- 
pleasure and forfeiting future opportunities on his 
yacht Notus. 

It was a half hour, before through one pretext and 
another, she was ready to rejoin the lovers. It was 
in no very complacent state of mind that Mr. Swape 
hurried forward, leaving her occasionally quite behind. 

Meanwhile, as soon as Beatrice was alone with the 
half-angry and very desperate Harry she felt she had 
been a great fool to trust herself to this solitude d 
deux^ and became heartily inq^atient for the others to 
join them. It was in vain that Harry’s voice grew 
tender. A flower he gave her she thanked him for 
indifferently, and soon began to pull it to pieces as if 
absent-minded. She declared herself chilly, and, when 
they sat down on the rocks, drew herself together 
under a shawl and persisted in keeping a little apart. 

But she might be as chilly as she pleased. Harry 


A RIVAL. 


139 


Birdsall did not intend to return till lie liad to, and 
lie knew that Mabel would keep liis rival away as 
long as she could. 

The wind had increased. The advancing tide broke 
in heavier waves. A spirt of foam occasionally sprink- 
led them. Beatrice now said that she was afraid. 
Harry drew nearer, and, making a still closer ap- 
proach by reclining on his elbow, murmured that 
nothing could happen to her while she was with 
him. But she gave him no response, not even a brief 
look. Her manner was as cold as the gray rocks 
surrounding them. 

He was growing so vexed that he was in danger of 
blurting a proposal in the bluntest terms possible, 
when Beatrice all at once relaxed, and, praising him 
for his feats in the afternoon, began such a eulogy on 
polo, and on the different ponies that had acquitted 
themselves admirably, that, amazed to hear her talk 
so much and so rapidly, he was obliged to wait till 
another expressive pause should recur. 

She did not permit this to happen until Matthew 
Swape’s genial voice was heard close at hand. Then 
she rose. A wave of color, distinctly visible even in 
the moonlight, swept over her pale face. She gave the 
baffled Harry one pleading, passionate look, and then, 
Mabel standing just above them like an angel of warn- 
ing, she stepped forward. Mr. Swape, too, appearing, 
she said, O, we thought you would never, never 
come ! ’’ 


t 


140 


PHEBE. 


Harry glanced at Mabel and shrugged liis shoulders. 
Mr. Swape, suddenly feeling that he too must bring 
things to a crisis, said to liimself, “ I’ll settle it, I will, 
within a month.” 

Mabel now broached the subject of a yacht party. 
She took Phebe’s letter out of her pocket, for, before 
leaving home, she had decided that this would be 
an auspicious night to arrange for the visit in detail, 
and she wished also to make it impossible for Harry 
Birdsall to be left out. 

Her plans were consummated easily. Beatrice nest- 
led so aggravatingly beside Matthew Swape that, his 
suspicions allayed, he was ready to assent to any prop- 
osition. And so, with only the merest intimation 
from Mabel, he gave Harry such a pressing invitation 
that that young man felt able to accept it wdth the 
greatest condescension. After much talking, during 
which . Harry noticed that Beatrice cast aside her 
shawl, and said nothing more about being afraid, it 
was satisfactorily arranged that they should start the 
first of August for a two weeks’ cruise and visit. 

They were only a short w’ay from Morning-glory 
Cottage when they parted; that was one comfort to 
Harry. It was very late. Beatrice would insist on 
going in immediately and would not ask Mr. Swape to 
stay. For the rest, that one brief glance had at least 
renewed his hope. It was not long till August. Once 
on board the yacht, she would have to settle his fate, 
which should be hers also. 


A RIVAL. 


141 


On tlieir way home Mabel said, conlideiitially, 
‘‘Wasn’t I good, Mr. Birdsall?” 

“Yes, very. But I gained nothing. I begin to 
think Beatrice is a flirt.” 

“ slie is not,” replied her friend, stoutly. “ She 
is only judicial. You must be on your guard and 
take her off hers.” She laughed lightly. 

“ What are you laughing at ? ” said Harry, irritably. 

“ O, nothing ! I was merely thinking that if women 
had the proposing to do there wouldn’t be half tlie 
blunders made. Men are always saying the wrong 
thing in love affairs at the wrong time.” 


142 


FHEBE. 


CHAPTER XL 

COMING TO AN UNDEKSTANDING. 

Miss Bane slept profoundly on the night of her 
arrival at Ewing Farm. Like Phebe, she was an early 
riser. Her room faced on the Sound. The first thing 
she did, when she arose, was to look out of the win- 
dow. There were few traces of the storm beside the 
riven trunk of the largest elm on the knoll. Half the 
tree lay on the ground, its long, graceful brandies 
sweeping the grass, its luxuriant leafage still unwith- 
ered. Tliere was a Fall River steamboat in sight ; the 
rumble of the paddle-wheels was audible. A silvery 
haze shut ofi the far distance. The closely mown lawn 
was dewy and fragrant. The honeysuckle and roses 
filled the air with perfume. Comfort, plenty, and 
peace reigned* every-where. 

If Miss Bane had been a hungry rat that had sud- 
denly gnawed its way into a granary her sensations 
could not liave been more satisfactory. Her expres- 
sion was one of mingled complacency and greed. 
There was something pathetic in the starved look in 
her face, and that latent pathos might have developed 
into soul if it had not been counteracted by a calcu- 
lating selfishness and pugnacity visible in the upward 
tilt of the thick nose and the contractile power of her 


COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING. 143 

eyelids, wliicli, when wide open, revealed a pair of 
prominent, cold orbs of no particular color and with 
no depth. She drew her head inside, only after a 
thorough diagnosis of the exterior aspect of things 
and after forming an hypothesis of the interior, which 
her audacity led her to immediately act upon. 

She had not come to Ewing Farm with any definite 
scheme in her plotting brain. Thus far her life had 
had but one general plan, and, like a burglar with a 
skeleton key, she was applying it here and there, to 
see where it fitted best. She was the adopted daugh- 
ter of Phebe’s father’s adopted brother, and the birth 
of each was buried in hopeless obscurity. Her father 
had died, and for three years she had drifted. So 
much of the story she had told Phebe the night be- 
fore was time, and Miss Ewing had been convinced of 
its veracity. But the doings of those three years were 
given in vague and misleading outlines, for Miss Bane 
had attached lierself like a barnacle to people whose 
pity she had excited, and had so violated the privi- 
leges accorded her and the hospitality she had ex- 
torted that, by that curious interaction of good and 
bad impulses so characteristic of the vicious, she had 
thus far lost every advantage she had gained. 

It was with a determination, therefore, not to com- 
mit the same blunders that she dressed with a pleased 
expectancy, and with but one object in view for the 
day — to gain Phebe’s admiration and confidence. 
Poverty had appealed to Miss Ewing the night be- 


lU 


PHEBE. 


fore. It should again. Miss Bane, witli true dis- 
crimination, thus far had selected her victims from 
those to whom want seemed an unmitigated calamity. 
By various means she had acquired a fair education, 
and when knowledge failed assumption had proved 
so valuable that she had succeeded admirably in pos- 
ing as a woman of superior attainments. In leaving 
New England she bad the most exaggerated idea of 
the literary impression she would be able to make in 
the more benighted regions farther south.. 

There was no reason why she should not have had 
comfort and abundance of her own acquisition, only 
that the steady routine of a laborious life simplj^ did 
not suit her notions of her own deserts. A quick 
way to fortune or fame was her consuming desire, 
and out of this grew a conviction that somewhere or 
by somebody she had been wronged, and that what 
had not been allowed her she must seize when and 
as she could through her shrewdness. Like most peo- 
ple of her temperament, she had a positive contempt 
for those who lacked shrewdness, and, as her policy 
had been to associate herself with the guileless and 
affluent, she w^as in a chronic state of intense self- 
satisfaction. 

She softly opened the door at the foot of the back 
stairs and found herself in the dining-room. The 
table was set. The fragrance of delicious coffee 
greeted her nostrils. The buffet was flanked with 
side-dishes for the generous country breakfast, and at 


COMING TO AN UNDEESTANDING. 145 

Pliebe’s place the array of bright, old-fashioned silver 
accorded with the hypothesis she had framed up- 
stairs. 

Tip-toeing across the room, she opened the opposite 
door and confronted her hostess, who stood on the 
further side of the sitting-room, before the fire-place, 
reading the morning paper. 

Miss Ewing was vividly impressed with the insinu- 
ating motion of lier guest, who got across the-room 
witli a series of salaams interspersed with ‘‘ Cousin 
Phebes.” 

“ How beautiful and fresh you look. Cousin 
Phebe ! and I, Pm homely enough for Judge or 
one of Du Maurier’s caricatures. But I do not 
care ! ” and the claw-like hands wriggled in and out 
of each other, and the eager face looked up at the 
Juno-like proportions towering above her, as if to 
elicit some faint commendation. 

Phebe was not given to compliments, although she 
looked kindly and pityingly down at the wretched, 
ill-clothed figure. “ I hope you slept well and that 
you have not taken cold ? ” she inquired, with a tender 
treble in her sweet voice. ‘‘ I never saw a storm like 
the one of last night. Were you not frightened to 
be out % ” 

‘‘Yes and no. I was afraid of not getting here — 
but of the storm, no ! And I slept admirably. So 
this is the home of which father told me ! ” The 

corners of Miss Bane’s mouth dropped a trifle conde- 
10 


146 


PHEBE, 


scendinglj. Her quick, calculating glance estimated 
the cost of every thing in the plainly appointed apart- 
ment. 

“ It is a sweet home to me,” said Phebe, simply, 
“and this room especially so. These books are my 
treasures.” 

“ Ah, yes. The usual popular family library, I pre- 
sume ? ” There was a tone of such absurd patronage 
that Phebe looked in silent wonder at the being she 
was harboring, one who had rung the changes on des- 
titution one minute and had the air of a dictator the 
next. 

“ It has always been a popular library in our family,” 
she said, after a short pause, but with nothing in her 
voice to convey either offense or defense. 

At this juncture Sophia announced breakfast. It 
had gone sorely against her grain to see Hanny set 
the table for two, but Miss Ewing had insisted, lest 
she might be doing her would-be cousin an injustice. 

Miss Bane assumed tlio burden of the entertain- 
ment. She talked incessantly, especially on customs 
and education, introducing such strange ideas that 
Phebe, forgetful of her own experiences, found her- 
self wondering if Boston ways and people could pos- 
sibly be as foreign as they seemed under the color of 
her guest’s descriptions. 

Miss Bane leaned back in her chair with a languid, 
discouraged air as a reminiscence recurred to her. “ I 
was traveling on a local train one day, and occupied 


COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING. 


147 


the seat with a ladj", as I supposed, dressed in the 
most perfect taste, agreeable, unassuming manners, 
too — not that style, you know, typical of the best 
Boston people, but still I did think she was a lady — 
when all at once. Cousin Phebe, what — do — ^}’ou think 
she said ? She said ‘ anywheres ! ’ Imagine the shock 
it gave me ! I found it impossible to converse with her 
any longer with comfort, and so buried myself in the 
Moi'ning Post, I think there ought to be a social 
law excluding those who cannot speak pure English 
from the best society, don’t you? I was glad to dis- 
cover she came from Yermont.” 

“ I am afraid we should all be ostracized if such a 
law were strictly enforced.” 

“ O no. There is a handful who appreciate the 
sweetness and light of faultless English. I am sorry 
my ears are so sensitive. I suffer — often ! ” 

Miss Ewing’s sense of the ludicrous was touched 
when Miss Bane declared with ineffable complacency 
and suggestiveness that it was said in New England 
that the perfection of American grace and elegance 
was reached when a Boston woman was transplanted 
to New York. 

“ lias thee ever seen such a woman ? ” asked Phebe, 
laughing merrily between the words. 

“ O no, no ! ” with a weak giggle ; “ but I 
may ! ” 

‘•If thee had come from Boston thee might have 
been that woman.” Phebe’s eyes twinkled so hu- 


148 


PHEBE. 


morously that Miss Bane did not know whether to 
be angry, but she said, with pugnacious dignity, 

“ I am a Boston woman to all intents and pur- 
poses.” 

‘‘Thee said thee lived two hours from Boston.” 

“ Massachusetts is Boston. I’ve breathed the Bos- 
ton atmosphere all my life.” A j^air of cold opaque 
eyes scintillated a hostile light. 

Phebe, with Quaker peacefulness, dreading an ar- 
gument, bowed a kind of conciliatory assent and ate 
the remainder of her breakfast in silence. 

If Miss Bane tliought she had eifectually enlight- 
ened her hostess into acquiescence she was mistaken ; 
only, she was nearer gaining her end than she was 
aware. Phebe’s estimate of her visitor’s ignorance of 
the world was so gigantic that she felt that here be- 
neath her own roof was a subject for real missionary 
effort. 

As they left the room she noticed Miss Bane’s 
ill-fitting gown and her liair dressed with lackadaisi- 
cal negligence. The Quakeress longed to take that 
would-be Boston head between her two hands and 
shake its coiffuj-e into place. She could have so 
transformed the loosely, crookedly cut dress in a day 
that it would not have looked like the same garment. 
Such kindnesses would not have been esteemed court- 
esies or at all necessary ; and Phebe, entirely desti- 
tute of a desire for petty leadership, and with so little 
self-assertion that she exercised it only on the rarest 


COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING. 


149 


occasions, showed no signs of wliat was passing tlirougli 
her mind. She only drew an easy-chair beside one of 
tlie front windows and found a July magazine to offer 
her guest. 

Then, without excuse, she left the room and stole 
up-stairs to her own chamber. She went there to 
fight a battle between what she conceived a selfish 
love of ease and a duty that had entered her very 
door. Should she allow Miss Bane to remain a few 
weeks? There were the party of ^Newport friends 
for whose pleasure she needed to prepare. I will let 
her stay, finally thought Phebe, althongli I shall not 
introduce her as my friend ; I liave no right, more- 
over, to impose her on other people. She must un- 
derstand, if she remains, that she is here for her own 
convenience, and not as my guest. A smile flitted 
over her face as she thought of Sophia’s consterna- 
tion ; and then her heart throbbed with genuine love 
for the one faithful woman in the world who looked 
after her interests so unselfishly. She made up her 
mind to observe ^Nicholas more closely. Job could 
be borne with for the present ; he was at least merely 
idle and mischievous. Sophia and Maria, between 
them, regulated I^anny. There was really little prep- 
aration required to get ready for her guests. “ I have 
no more to do than usual ; I can certainly surrender 
a little strength and comfort.” Thus she made the 
common mistake of allowing her charities to be thrust 
upon her instead of exercising the really fine dis- 


150 


PHEBE. 


crimination she possessed in choosing the most 
worthy rec*ipients. However, she went down-stairs 
in a veiy virtuous frame of mind, and, sitting 
down at the o])en window, opposite Miss Bane, rest- 
ed her elbow on the sill and her face in the palm of 
her hand. 

Miss Bane presently looked np. I was so inter- 
ested in an ai-ticle on Siberian exiles. O, I just long 
to meet one ! ” 

Phebe smiled. “ My farmer is a Russian exile, and 
says he has worked in the mines of Kara. When we 
go over the farm together, in a day or two, I will 
point him out.’’ 

Miss Bane gave a little start. Phebe wondered 
if it were because she had implied an acceptance of 
the situation. The guest recovered herself instantly, 
and exclaiming, “ How romantic ! ” clasped her hands 
effusively. “ Cousin Phebe, i^ is perfectly wonderful 
how much I feel at home here ! ” 

Phebe looked seriously and thoughtfully out of the 
window. She dreaded to begin what she had to say. 
She made the mistake common to finely strung and 
delicately upright natures. She credited Miss Bane 
with the same refinement of feeling she possessed 
herself, although the assertion of the former was a 
quality of whicli she could not even conceive. 

“ Miss Bane,” she said, firmly, at length, “ I must 
talk plainly to you; I hope you will take nothing 
that I shall say amiss.” 


COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING. 


lol 


The cold, prominent eyes contracted slightly. Her 
sinnous hands clutched the front of her dress. She 
said, with admirable tentativeness, “ Yery well, Cousin 
Thebe.” 

“In the first place, I must find a little fault with 
the name by wliicdi you address me. I do not doubt ' 
that you are the adopted daughter of my father’s 
adopted brother ; that establishes no relationship be- 
tween you and me. Father broke o^ all connection 
with your father some time before his death because, 
after years of sacrifice and generosity, he was not only 
not thanked, but even his good name was aspersed, 
lie bore all this in silence, for father loved peace and 
pitied the unfortunate. I am quite sure he never 
even knew of your existence. Under the circum- 
stances ” — Thebe’s voice trembled a little — “ will thee 
be good enough to call me Miss Ewing hereafter?” 

Miss Bane cast one long, reproachfid glance at 
her, in which baffled policy and assumed indigna- 
tion mingled. But Thebe added — her eyes momenta- 
rily cast down — “ Only on this condition can I consent 
to invito thee to stay here a while.” 

‘‘Yery well. Cousin — Miss Ewing.” * 

“I have often read of difficulties in the way of 
women who are alone in the great world. My con- 
science would reproach mo if I sent thee away before 
thee had a chance to find something to do ; so 1 have 
thought that if thee wished to remain here a few 
weeks, to go back and forth to the city, till thee could 


PHEBE. 


152 

find honest work for head or hands, I would make 
thee welcome for so long, and do what I could to aid 
thee also.” 

“But, Cou — Miss Ewing, I have just that in my 
purse; see!” She opened her dilapidated pocket- 
book and pulled out a ragged dollar bill. 

“ Then there is no time to lose. I will furnish thee 
with money for the trips ; thee need not feel under 
obligations, for it will be little, and perhaps — who 
knows? — something will come to hand right away.” 
She smiled encouragingly; she drew a deep breath of 
relief. She was not much of a talker, and this effort 
had been an ordeal. She held out her hand to Miss 
Bane, who rocked slowly back and forth, looking 
steadily and studiously at Phebe. Either she would 
not take the proffered hand or she did not see it. 

“ Shall I continue to room where I do?” 

“Yes; lean spare that chamber better than any 
other. I am to have a houseful of company later, 
and there thee can be as quiet and alone as thee 
pleases.” 

“ Dear, dear I ” said Miss Bane, with sudden enthu- 
siasm. “ Company 1 I haven’t much of a wardrobe, 
but I’ll make the best showing I can.” 

“Thee need feel no responsibility,” said ^ Phebe, 
sympathetically. “If thee would like to take thy 
meals alone, don’t feel afraid of the trouble.” 

“ O, I could not think of making the extra work 
that separate meals would imply. This is a miserable 


COMIXG TO UNDERSTAND IN'G. 153 

dress; isn’t it?” and she smoothed the folds of her 
gown. ‘‘A Mrs. Oxford gave it to me. Her daugh- 
ter and I were school-girls together. She invited me 
to stay with them for a whole year. I did ; but O, 
O! sncli quarrels and discords! I really felt obliged 
to leave. I couldn’t stand it ; though, in their poor 
way, they were awfully good to me — gave me a trunk 
full of things. Why, do you know, Mr. Oxford came 
home one night intox — ” 

Phebe held up her hand forbiddingly. 

“Thee accepted their favors arid the freedom of 
their house; do not allow thyself to gossip about un- 
pleasant things thee saw under their roof.” 

“ O Cousin — Miss Ewing, it was only — only be- 
cause I trust you so. I could tell the inmost secrets 
of my heart to you, believe me ! ” 

Phebe smiled; but her smile might mean every 
thing or nothing.' Then she gave her retainer the 
times for meals, etc. ; and, adding that she hoped Miss 
Bane would find pleasure and diversion either in the 
house or out-of-doors for that day, she withdrew to 
give Sophia orders, and afterward to take her custom- 
ary walk over the farm, which was usually finished 
at an early hour. 


154 


FHEBK 


CIIAPTEE XII. 

THE MOKTGAGE. 

Phebe sighed as she shut the back dooj* of the roomy 
Iiall running through S:he middle of the house. The 
sacredness of her home seemed despoiled. Under the 
pine-trees she turned around and looked lovingly at 
the weather-beaten exterior of the old house, and then, 
with a fashion she had when in deep thought, she 
folded her hands behind her and walked slowly to the 
lane. The locust-trees on either side, giants, straight, 
their rough-seamed trunks towering till they feathered 
into innumerable branches covered with delicate, 
small-leaved foliage, were the glory of the farm. 
There was not such a locust avenue anywhere around. 
II er Grandfather Ewing had planted each one of those 
trees with his own hand. He had loved them, her 
father luid loved them, and she, in her turn, regarded 
them reverently, as if some Dryad friendly to the 
Killians and Ewings occupied them and made them 
personal. The sunlight fell in mottled brightness on 
the ground ; its heat, tempered by the shade, was not 
unpleasant. 

Phebe at this moment did not appear like a Phyllis 
or Chloe of Arcadian romance. No one, either, would 
have mistaken her for a city dame sauntering for mere 


THE MORTGA GE. 


155 


pleasure, for there was speculation in her eye, an 
anxious wrinkle occasionally on her brow, and, as siie 
passed from one field to another, a survey of its barren- 
ness or growing wealth that betokened the proprietor. 

The curate’s ofiiciousness recurred to her, and tlie 
glow in her cheeks deepened. Gratuitous suggestion 
from him was intolerable ; he was her equal. Like 
every other sweet, good woman, she liked neither to 
be gossiped about nor pitied. She was fiirrning to 
save the dear old homestead, and as long as she did 
so she meant to be as practical and economical and 
unobtrusive as possible. When John came back slie 
would surrender the out-door care to him. H is return, 
too, had lately grown more needful, for the holder 
of the mortgage, Mr. Mills, had been urging its liq- 
uidation. 

While Phebe’s nature was too trustful for her cir- 
cumstances, she was not blind to shrewdness or dis- 
honesty when her perceptions were finally quickened. 
She felt peculiarly solicitous about the mortgage just 
now, because there seemed no apparent reason for an 
immediate settlement. Land at the Hook had recently 
so increased in value that surely no mortgage could 
be better invested. So far as she could judge, Mr. 
Mills w'as not in need of ready money. Did he, then, 
w'ish to foreclose in order to secure some of her land 
for purposes of speculation ? O, if she only had the 
required sum in ready money ! 

She had gradually climbed the gentle ascent of the 


156 


PHEBE. 


beautifully swelling acres, and as slie reached her 
boundary she turned around and, leaning against the 
fence, surveyed with pardonable pride her possessions. 

To the right a field of ripe wheat, yellow as gold 
and tawny in the shadow as a tiger’s skin, sloped to 
the east. The breeze playing in its tall ranks swept 
them into changing, shining billows. The rye had 
been already cut, and the yellow stubble and brown 
earth showed with somber dullness beside the wheat. 
The corn, now two feet high, caught the wind with 
its curving blades of brilliant green, and in certain 
lights looked almost like a continuation of the Sound. 
To the left four or five acres in oak and chestnut — 
virgin growth for aught she knew to the contrary, 
and on the same elevation as the high land on which 
she stobd — made building sites of great possible future 
value, j^earer the water the potatoes fiourished in 
thrifty dull green rows. The meadow-lands, rich and 
rank, made food for her herd of Jerseys and the 
faithful horses, and gave color and richness to the 
butter, which already commanded a steady market as 
of choice quality. Phebe often counted the deep yellow 
pats as if they were piles of gold when Maria had 
them ready for shipping, each branded in neat letters, 
“ Ewing Farm.” In a straight line from her, with a 
warm south-easterly exposure, lay the kitchen garden, 
and she knew so well when each vegetable was planted 
that even from her present distance she distinguished 
the orderly rows of peas, the limas by their tall poles, 


THE MORTGAGE. 


157 


the currants faintly red with the unpicked fruit, the 
bushy raspberries at present affording delicious Ant- 
werps and black-caps for breakfast and tea. And in 
the midst of all was that dear old house showing in 
front of the vines and looking lovingly sheltered by 
the great chestnut in front of the kitchen door, its 
vast circumference as soft and golden in its flowering 
luxuriance as the back of a bumble-bee. The chest- 
nut blossoms were always one of Phebe’s summer 
landmarks. They betokened to her the culmination 
of heat and fertility. And there was the knoll near 
the front of the house, the gap plainly visible where 
the lightning had struck the shattered elm. Her eyes 
filled as she thought of the vacancy. John loved that 
particular tree more than any other. 

On the wind came the distant humming sound of the 
reaping-machine. Her face took on a look of approval 
on seeing Petrovsky busy in the lower wheat-field. 

Job had been sent to the Hook. 

‘‘ It is time he w^as back,” thought his mistress, just 
as she discovered a cloud of dust far off along the 
highway. A little later, perched on the lofty seat 
of a farm-wagon. Job became visible. His back ^vas 
bent over in lazy shiftlessness. The reins hung idly 
from his hands. The horses, with heads down, walked 
like beetles. 

He is a dreadful poke. I do not wonder he tor- 
ments Sophia. On the first of September, just as soon 
as John comes, I will make a general change.” 


158 


PllEBE. 


As if relieved by this thought, and as if it linislied 
the morning’s survey, she took her watch from the 
belt of her blue flannel blouse, and, discovering that it 
was half past twelve, she turned to reach the lane by 
a short cut. 

As she came in sight of the shady aveni^e she savv 
a man on horseback entering from the main road. It 
was Mr. Mills. A vague depression seized her. She 
crossed a fleld of red clover and came out directly 
in front of the mortgagee through a gate made in 
the fence. 

“ Good -morning. Miss Ewing. Glad to And you^at 
home. I should like to have a little talk on business 
matters.” 

« 

“Suppose we talk here,” said Phebe. She felt 
foolishly better able to meet him on a more independ- 
ent basis in the open air. He had a way when in 
the house of looking over things as if in he already 
considered himself the owner. 

He dismounted, tied his horse to one of the locust- 
trees, and Pliebe stood still, her hand resting on the 
fence, until he should be quite disengaged. But Mr. 
Mills could talk better if he were at least apparently 
occupied. So, although its care was duly attended to, 
he remained by the horse, and while straightening its 
mane under the bridle asked : 

“ Come to a decision yet ? ” 

“I caif t until Mr. Ewing returns. At all events, 
I feel unwilling to borrow so large a sum without his 


THE MORTGAGE. 


159 


advice, although I am at* perfect liberty to do so. I 
have had good news from him recently. He is com- 
ing back in September, and his letter leads me to 
think that we shall be able to lift the mortgage with- 
out borrowing. Can’t you wait a few weeks longer ? ” 

He turned sharply around. His face had darkened 
over Phebe’s communication. 

“ I can’t wait. Miss Ewing. I must have ready 
money immediately. Why not sell the woodland ? I 
have a purchaser for you the minute you will say 
yes.” He looked furtively at her. 

“ Sell the woodland ! It is the heart of the estate. 
I would rather let any other portion go than that, ex- 
cept the house. Only wait a few weeks, Mr. Mills, 
and I am sure we can arrange every thing to your 
satisfaction.” Her voice trembled. 

See here, Miss Ewing, this is a business matter, 
isn’t it ? You don’t want to part with your land. I 
don’t want to wait for my money. There is the 
whole matter in a nutshell. You ask me to do 
for you what you are unwilling to do for me.” 
He spoke gruffly, lightly switching the grass with 
his whip. 

, Tlie color suffused her face. Her lips quivered. 
She had never been addressed so harshly before. She 
felt a sudden sickening disgust for business matters. 
Even the farming assumed grim, forbidding propor- 
tions. There was a long, long silence, which she final- 
ly broke. 


160 


PHEBE. 


“ I sliall not sell. I will-not borrow. You must 
wait till September for any action on my part.” 

He turned squarely around. He was surprised. 
Like many anotlier man, he had considered the ex- 
treme gentleness of the kind Phebe exhibited as 
allied to weakness. He' now saw his mistake. Slie 
stood as erect as the stately locusts overshadowing 
her. Her eyes, expanded and brilliant, were full of 
determination. She. had clasped her hands behind 
her. 

He waited for her to speak further, but she had 
nothing more to say. He walked up and down be- 
side his horse for a few times. Then lie came and 
stood in front of her. ‘‘ There is but one thing left 
for me to do. I must sell your farm.” 

“ AV ould it be legal ? ” 

He drew a long envelope from his breast-pocket, 
and, taking from it the mortgage, quickly ran his 
eye over the contents until he found what he want- 
ed. Listen : 

“ ‘ And if default shall be made in the paj^ment of 
the said sum of money above mentioned, or the interest 
tliat may grow due thereon, or of any part thereof, 
that then. and from thenceforth it shall be lawful 
for the said party of the second part, or his heirs, ex- 
ecutors, administrators, or assigns, to enter into and 
upon all and singular the premises hereby granted, 
or intended so to be, and to sell and dispose of 
the same and all benefit and equity of redemption 


THE MORTGAGE. 


161 


of tlie said party of the first part, or his lieirs, exec- 
utors, administrators, or assigns therein, at public 
auction, according to the act in such case made and 
provided.’ ” 

Pliebe grew white. She glanced at the woodland. 
The oaks and chestnuts were swaying in a stiff breeze. 
She listened to the friendly rustling of the leaves. 
The passing irresolution in her eye vanished. She 
fell back upon the sublime courage oftener character- 
istic of women than of men in such emergencies, and 
due chiefly to ignorance or inexperience. 

“ Do what you will, Mr. Mills.” 

She turned away with a cold good-morning and 
walked haughtily down the lane. 

Mr. Mills stood still watching her retreating figure. 
“What spirit! It just suits my plans, however. 
What would she say if she knew who stood ready to 
get a lien on Ewing Earm?” 

Although she walked away with such proud inde- 
pendence she was in a tumult of feeling. She had 
been so perfectly contented in her home, her activi- 
ties, and the placid assurance that since she wished 
well to every body every one naturally wished her 
well, that she was bewildered with this slowly gatli- 
ering web encircling her of unpleasant conditions and 
persons. 

She still obstinately insisted to herself that she 
was equal also to this new emergency. Before she 

reached the house Petrovsky, Miss Bane, and Mr. Mills 
11 


162 


PHEBE. 


stood before her mind as more to be pitied than 
feared. Kot that she did not intend to act sum- 
marily in each case wlien the time came, if it should 
be necessary. As for the former, he really did well 
enough, if she only knew more about him. As for 
Miss Bane, she was probably of that vagrant class 
whom a little help might soften, and could do no 
harm. As for Mr. Mills, he could not possibly have 
held that mortgage so many years only to foreclose it, 
and on a woman. 

When she crossed the lawn her brow had partially 
cleared. However bad the world might be, it would 
never do for her to condescend to petty methods. 
Evil was to be overcome with good ; but in her mis- 
taken logic the evil of generations could be over- 
come immediately. 

There was a strip of shade already in front of the 
house. Miss Bane sat on the porch, slowly rocking. 
The light was too strong for her eyes. She had par- 
tially closed them, and kept indolently blinking. 
Phebe was reminded of a cat. * 

Sophia was in the dining-room door, which opened 
on the lawn, watching for her mistress. Her florid 
face was gravity itself. She had made a stupendous 
discovery. She would have spoken to Phebe, but the 
latter waved her hand, saying, 

“ Wait till afternoon. Is dinner almost ready ? ” 

“ In flfteen minutes, ma’am.” 

^^Yery well.” 


TUE MORTGAGE. 


163 


Miss Ewing went immediately to her room, washed 
her face, bathed her wrists over and over until the 
refreshing coldness had lowered her circulation, then 
unlocked her desk and took out her copy of the mort- 
■ gage. She read it through slowly and carefully. 

The “power of sale” was there, just as Mr. Mills 
had read. 


V 


END OF PART FIRST. 


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CO UNTER INVESTIGA TIONS. 


165 


PART SECOND. 


CHAPTER L 

COUNTER INVESTIGATIONS. 

The day that Phebe encountered Mr. Mills was 
Saturday. Saturday was also Sophia’s baking-day. A 
baking at Ewing Farm involved many eggs. When 
Sophia went to the pantry to get some she found 
that Job had not brought in the morning supply; 
so, after calling that always-missing youth in vain, 
she donned a huge sun-bonnet and started for the 
barn. 

As she was passing the carriage-house a sudden 
cackling from within diverted her steps. Her find 
there was so unusual on the first story that she 
was tempted to the heavy door of the inclosed 
staircase leading to the second. Ever since Petrov- 
sky had been at the farm he had insisted on keeping 
this door locked. Sophia was tlierefore surprised 
and delighted to find it open to her effort, and she 
slowly limped, up-stairs. The stairs were merely shut 
in by a wooden partition ; between the clapboards 
and the casing all the way up was a row of holes. 
Boxes filled with straw had been fitted into these 
openings. The Scotchwoman made the further dis- 


166 


PUEBE. 


CO very that either Petrovsky or Job was keeping a 
private hennery. Thi-ee of the nests were occupied 
by hens, and in the others were freshly laid eggs. 

Above was a garret to whicli the refuse belongings of 
the horses and carriages were relegated. A narrow 
hall separated the attic from two bedrooms occupied 
severally by Petrovsky and Job. 

“ I wonder what else I shall find ? ” queried Sophia. 
She felt on the evef of liaving her suspicions verified. 

She first looked out of the windows at either end 
of the hall. 

Petrovsky was where Pliebe had seen him, mowing 
in the lower wheat-field ; and Job — he was in better 
business than she had thought, for he was in the 
kitchen-garden picking raspberries; and Nanny,- who 
was forever running to the barns, was safely busy with 
a great pan of peas to shell which Sophia had taken 
care to give her before leaving the house. She could 
see that blithe maid sitting on the outside cellar- 
steps and hear her continual singing, which Miss 
Ewing would not allow silenced, for girls like Nanny, 
the mistress said, were like birds — they must sing. 

Well satisfied with her observations, she first en- 
tered Job’s room, looked into his trunk, felt- in his 
pockets, and then, turning up his mattress, uttered a 
triumphant ‘‘ Humph ! ” for there, wrapped in news- 
paper, was the huge cake about wdiich she had vainly 
questioned Nanny. 

“ Waste, waste, waste ! ” sighed Sophia ; and all 


COUNTER INVESTIGATIONS. 167 

because Miss Pliebe, not because she can’t, but be- 
cause she won’t, believe in the wickedness of hired 
help.” 

She shut her lips, tossed her head, and, though 
much against the grain, left Job’s booty unmolested, 
not, however, without a grim pleasure in the thought 
of tackling him with it ” at an opportune moment. 

She tried Petrovsky’s door. It was locked. She 
was baffled. This chance might not occur again. All 
at once she thought of her bunch of keys. Taking it 
out, she tried key after key in vain, and at length, as 
if it were of no use, the last one on tlie bunch, for it 
looked so unpromising. She inserted it, to hear to 
her joy the bolt turn. ^ 

She took the precaution to lock herself in. This 
having been accomplished, her face was a study for 
Victor Hugo. 

She stood in the middle of the room, and what her 
sweeping survey embraced was eminently satisfac- 
tory^, or she would not have shaken her head so vehe- 
mently. What vigilance the Pussian must have exer- 
cised to keep even Job from his room, for that boy 
had a tongue not to be trusted ! 

The little bureau stood in the corner behind the 
door. Covering its surface was a fine towel on an 
end of which, in exquisite embroidery, underneath a 
device incomprehensible to Sophia, were the letters 
[I. E.” 

“ He is no Hicholas Petrovsky I” 


168 


PHEBE. 


But this towel paled into insignificance wlien, on 
opening tlie upper drawer, she beheld it carefully 
lined and containing an array of ivory combs and 
brushes. In the other drawers were handkerchiefs 
and underwear of the finest material. From under- 
neath a pile of linen she took out a velvet case con- 
taining photographs. There were four pictures in 
the case. Two were of a gentleman and lady of 
unmistakably high rank. The man wore a uniform ; 
his breast was covered with decorations. The other 
two were of half-grown children. In the boy's linea- 
ments Sophia thought she detected Petrovsky’s feat- 
ures. 

“ This is his farnil}", no doubt. I suppose he has 
disgraced them in some way and has had to leave 
Bussia. America is filled with the good-for-nothing 
tramps and furriners. They will destroy the land 
like an army of locusts.” Sophia entirely forgot her 
own extraction when dilating on this subject. 

In the corner on the other side of the door was a 
box of books. She opened a few of them. The 
names w'cre fraught with evil to her : Russia Ready 
for the Flrehrand j Germany and Socialism' 
American Plutocracy The World Revolution, She 
softly shut the volumes as if they might explode 
in her hands. 

As she was laying the last one back in the box it 
slipped from her grasp. Out of it fell an old photo- 
graph of her mistress, taken when Miss Ewing was 


COUNTER INVESTIGATIONS. 


169 


just growing into womanhood. The face was smil- 
ing and happy. The photographer had seated Phebe 
in a rustic bower. Her pose was not bad. Alto- 
gether, the portrait was a rather poetic one. Sophia 
put it in her pocket without liesitation, and, as she 
did so, slie saw a letter lying on the floor. She 
opened this also. It was a love-letter, such a one, it is 
safe to say, as she had never read before — florid, anx- 
ious, threatening, and insinuating. It was signed 
“ J. B.” She folded it in disgust, but all at once her 
jaw dropped. She examined the writing, looked at 
the initials again, and, hastily thrusting the epistle in 
a book, sprang to her feet. 

‘‘I wonder if Miss Phebe will believe me now V’ 

She did not linger for further discoveries. She let 
herself out as quickly as possible, cast very regretful 
looks at the eggs as she passed down the stairs, for 
she was loth to leave them untouched. As she left 
the carriage-house she saw Job issuing from the rasp- 
berries. 

“ In the nick of time ! In the nick of time ! ” she 
exclaimed. 

She did not dare trust herself to speak to Job as 
she entered the kitchen just after him, but she com- 
mended Nanny, whom she found peeling potatoes. 
Nanny looked at her in astonishment, for Sopjiia, as 
a rule, had words of praise for no one but Miss 
Ewing. 

In the short period of her stay Miss Bane had con- 


170 


PHEBE. 


ceived a wholesome awe of Sophia. From her seat 
by the window she saw that functionary go to the 
barns. It was her opportnnit3^ Stealing into the 
dining-room, she beheld, through the rear window, 
Nanny absorbed in the peas. Compressing her lips 
with a smile of complacent satisfaction, she turned to 
the sideboard, looked into the various drawers and 
closets, and apparently saw enough silver to suit 
whatever idea was uppermost in her scheming brain. 
Then she glided tlirough the other rooms of the first 
fioor. Th§ evidences of long and dignified posses- 
sion that she witnessed pleased her more and more. 
The bedroom looking out on the pines piqued her 
curiosity. Drawers and closets were deftly and thor- 
oughly examined. All that rewarded her search here, 
however, were the wardrobe and other belongings of 
a manifestly beloved and revered old lady. Rever- 
ence was an unknown factor to Miss Bane. She was 
as rapacious, after her style, as the Tartars that swept 
over Russia and unseated the house of Ruric. 

Next in order were, the coveted front stairs, which 
she had expected would be her right of way. Her 
fingers clutched the slender railing of the banister 
as she ascended, her chin in the air, her opaque eyes 
full of speculation over the treasures of that upper 
region. When she reached the landing the curious 
arrangement of the rooms puzzled her. But there 
was the Sound in front, and, taking her bearings from 
that, she looked through the broken vista of chambers 


COUNTER INVESTIG'ATIONS. 


171 


at lier left, canglit a glimpse into another behind her 
at tlie end of the hall ; while at her right, reached by 
a flight of two steps all its own, was a room of which 
tlie door was ajar. She softly pushed the door open 
and stood in Phebe’s chamber. 

As she saw its unusual size, embraced the odd min- 
gling of ancient and new fashions in furniture, and 
'with contracted but keener vision inspected the num- 
berless small and dainty belongings that differentiate 
each lady from every other, an expression of mali- 
cious envy darkened her countenance, and, doubling 
her sinewy little flst, she shook it and her whole fig- 
ure at the same time, feeling defrauded. 

“ To tuck me in that miserable place over there ! ” 
and the fist pointed to the wing. 

She opened the door at the foot of the bed, and 
seeing an adjoining room, but very dark after the 
flood of light in Phebe’s room, she stepped forward 
-with increased curiosity and fell in a heap at the foot 
of the flight of steps leading into the chamber kept 
ready for John. 

Her fall made quite a noise ; she was too loosely 
jointed to bo hurt. After listening anxiously for a 
minute she picked herself up and continued her in- 
vestigations. 

She reached the room at the end of the hall. It 
looked unused, but its perfect order impressed her; 
for, by a slovenly person, while order is not respected, 
it is noted as a peculiarity. In this room there was 


172 


PIIEBE. 


but one other door besides tliat through whicli slie 
had eAtered. SJie tried the knob ; it turned in her 
hand. Softly opening the door, she peered inside, 
stuck her head farther forward, then entered, lialf 
shutting lierself in, and gazed around in wonder. She 
was in Phebe’s linen-closet. 

It is safe to say that tliere are not many such linen- 
closets in existence to-day. It was square, almost as 
big as a room. The shelves reached to tlie ceiling. 
They were packed with the hoarded accumulations of 
three generations — the finest linen, homespun and 
machine-spun ; piles of dainty pillow-cases, embroid- 
ered and lace-trimrned ; dozens of sheets, number- 
less winter and summer blankets, and towels so many, 
of all qualities and sizes, that she stopped counting 
in despair. 

All this ! ” she exclaimed, at length, under her 
breath, and what have I ? ” 

After Sophia came in from the carriage-house she 
lost no time in beginning preparations for her baking. 
She was beating a dozen eggs with her customary 
vehemence when the fall up-stairs faintly sounded 
like an echo from outside upon her acute hearing. 
She listened. It was not repeated, and she finished 
beating the eggs. But, just after throwing them in 
with the butter and sugar she had made Nanny whip 
to a light froth, an idea struck her, and giving to the 
maid the huge yellow bowl in which a sponge-cake 
was in embryo, with many warnings to ‘‘ be sure to 


COUNTER INVESTIGATIONS. 


173 


keep stirring one way,’’ she left the kitchen to look 
through the house. 

She hurried up to Miss Bane’s room. The door 
was locked. “ Shut herself in for some miscliief, I’ll 
warrant. It takes a thief to catch a thief, they say, 
and when people who air a-visitin’ air so mighty 
particular to lock up, the house had better be locked 
against them.” 

She turned to the hall communicating with the 
main house, glanced into one room after another, and, 
seeing nothing amiss, was about to limp down the 
front stairs when the open doer of the linen-closet 
attracted her attention. 

“ Miss Phebe’s forgotten to lock the closet again. 
She’ll have all her fine things stolen one of these 
days.” And in Sophia’s mind the linen-burglar who 
presented himself was like Miss Bane. But, for that 
matter, any criminal on the face of the earth would 
at this period have assumed her lineaments or Pe- 
trovsky’s to the irate Scotchwoman. 

Miss Bane suddenly heard that limping step. It 
drew nearer and nearer. She shrank behind a pile 
of counterpanes placed on top of a cedar chest. Then 
she sprang to her feet, determined to act the part of 
injured innocence if she should be discovered; but 
Sophia simply shut the door with a bang, turned the 
key quickly and took it out. Half- way down the 
hall, through the crack at the back of the door, she 
had seen a sudden flitting, and, instantly comprehend- 


174 


PHEBE. 


irioj the situation, liad stolen a inarch on her “ evil 
speerit.’’ 

When Phebe came home her adopted cousin had 
been in tlie Ewing “black hole ’’just one hour. If 
she had to staj’ there twenty Sophia w’as determined 
that she should only come out ms-a-vis witli the 
mistress. So when Phebe waved the Scotchwoman 
aside that inexorable judge was glad, as it gave her 
a further excuse for prolonging the punishment. She 
said no more until her mistress had had dinner. 
Then, unmindful of her own material needs, so eager 
was she to pour forth the full volume of her dis- 
coveries, she asked : 

“ Do you feel like hearing what I have to say now, 
ma’am ? ” 

Phebe looked up wearily. All the time during 
dinner her mind had been so absorbed witli Mr. Mills 
and the mortgage that she had failed to notice her 
guest’s absence. Miss Bane’s presence had made so 
little impression on her, anyway, that she had listened 
to that young woman's long stories absent-mindedly. 
Sophia’s persistency was annoying. 

“ Is it something about the housekeeping ? Can*t 
it wait till to-morrow ?” 

“ Yes’m, I suppose it can, but it ought to be at- 
tended to to-day.” 

“ I feel hot and tired. I will go up-stairs and take 
off this heavy dress first. Come to my room in a 
half hour and I will hear you.” 


COUNTER INVESTIGATIONS. 


175 


There is a mine of liygienic wisdom in the Bible. 
When the king of Israel’s child ^va,s sick unto death 
David fasted and prayed and lay all night upon 
the earth.^’ When the child died the king arose 
from the earth, and washed, and anointed himself, and 
changed his apparel, and came into the house of the 
Lord, and worshiped.” 

Phebe felt that for the time being she liad attended 
to all pressing matters. After bathing, re-arranging 
her hair, and putting on cool, thin clothing, she found 
herself ready for further perplexities. Moreover, al- 
though the impending trouble concerning the mort- 
gage seemed serious enough, it had not the annihilat- 
ing proportions of an hour before. 

She sat down by the open window. The front of 
the house was in deep shade. The rich green of the 
lawn soothed her vision. The gentle breeze, kissing 
her cheek, recalled her mother. All day her parents 
had been strangely present wdth her. There was some- 
thing in the very blueness of the sky, in the vital 
throbbing of the warm air, in the free movement of 
the joyous water, that rendered the intangible palpa- 
ble. She did not feel lonely with the appalling dread 
of a final separation from those who had been nearest 
and dearest. They were certainly not even far away. 
She closed her eyes with a strange trustfulness and 
security stealing over lier. She repeated in a whis- 
per, “ For he shall give his angels charge over thee, 
to keep thee in all thy ways.” 


m 


PHEBE. 


“ Amen ! ” said an earnest, intensely practical voice. 
Pliebe, opening her eyes, smiled, appreciating the 
situation ; for she knew that Sophia felt that none 
bnt angels would avail at times. 

“ I did not hear you come in, Sophia.’’ 

“ I thought .you were asleep, ma’am, and as the door 
was open I stole up close to you to see.” 

‘‘ Draw another chair up b}^ the window.” 

“ Yes’m.” 

“ Here is a fan. You are tired, too, poor girl ! ” 
I’m awful sorry to trouble you to-day, ma’am.” 
She looked around. “ I’ll shut the door. Miss Phebe.” 

Miss Ewing waited patiently till these usual pre- 
liminaries were finished, although she was somewhat 
impressed with Sophia’s unwonted gravity and delib- 
eration. 

I’ve heard one piece of bad news to-day, Sophia. 
I hoj^e 3mu haven’t any thing very dreadful to tell 
me.” 

“ Two things, ma’am. Trouble never comes singly ; 
an’, if I’m not mistaken, the other old saying is 
coming true in our case — it never rains but it ponrs.” 

“ O, well, it will be over the sooner. How, tell 
me, and be as brief as you can. You know you love 
a long story, Sophia.” Phebe laughed. She had 
recovered her poise in view of the maid’s overwhelm- 
ing seriousness. 

“ I’m right. Miss Phebe. I’ve caught Petrovsky 
at last.” 


COUNTER INVESTIGATIONS. 


177 


“ In wliat ? ” 

“ He’s a gentleman.” 

I’m glad to hear it. Is that the worst you can 
say of him ? ” 

“ It’s bad enough. A gentleman who conceals his 
beginnings and acts as if he was common folks is far 
beneath the lowest.” 

“ISTow, Sophia, you are in the midst of mysteries, 
as usual. Do tell me a short, straightforward story.” 

Do you recognize that picture, ma’am ? ” She 
drew the photograph from her pocket. 

“Where did you find it? I have looked every- 
where for it. It disappeared a year ago.” 

“ In Petrovsky’s room, ma’am.” 

Miss Ewing’s color came in a wave of mortified 
pride. A hundred things she had thought too in- 
significant to notice recurred to her. She tore the 
l)icture in two and threw it aside as if she had been 
contaminated. “ Go on,” she said, sternly. 

Pealizing that she had at length aroused the deep, 
if slow, indignation of her mistress, Sophia gave a 
graphic account of the cackling hen, the eggs, the 
locked door, the contents of the bureau, the revolu- 
tionary books', and the letter. 

Phebe’s head sank to one side. Her face wore a 
look of pained incredulity. It was an obstinate 
rather than a blind incredulity. She might have 
known all this for herself long ago, and she had left 

it for a woman of less intelligence to discover. Hot 

12 


PHEBE. 


17 S 

that there was any thing intrinsically wrong in Petrov- 
sky from the facts which Sophia had told her, if she 
excepted the picture ; but her own knowledge of 
the Russian’s acts and looks, all of which she had 
attributed to ignorance and foreignness, blended too 
harmoniousl}^, now that she knew them, with his an- 
tecedents. She awoke wich dread to the suspicion 
that this unknown man had stayed with her in the 
capacity of a laborer for the sake of being near lier, 
and long after the ready money which he had at first 
professed to need so sorely had been earned. Surely, 
unless he had some object, he could have gone long ago 
to more congenial occupation and larger opportunity. 

The half-gathered crops seemed suddenly unimpor- 
tant. Somewhere a farmer could be found to help 
her out with the season. 

“What did you say about a letter, Sophia? ” 

“ I said, ma’am, that there was a letter filled with 
such hifalutin stuff as I never heard tell of before, 
and stuff I could not ’a’ thought of if I should live a 
hundred years.” 

“ O ! such a letter is no concern of mine. I feel 
sorry to find out about Petrovsky in this surreptitious 
way. I suppose a woman has the right to be a de- 
tective in her own house though. You are my detect- 
ive, Sophia.” 

“ The letter does concern us. If Pm not mistaken, 
the writing’s the same as what you showed 
Miss Bane’s.” 


me- 


C 0 UNTER INVESTIGA TIONS. 


179 


“ Miss Bane’s ? "Where is she, by the way ? She 
was not at dinner.” 

“ She’s all right, ma’am,” and the Scotchwoman 
looked so deliciously satished that Miss Ewing said : 

“ Have you become reconciled to her ? ” 

The maid laconically shook her head in the nega- 
tive, the corners of her mouth dropping in incredu- 
lous contempt. 

‘‘Toiler? Hever ! ” 

“ About the letter ? ” 

“Don't you understand, ma’am, that if she’s ben 
a-writing love-letters to Petrovsky that she knows 
hiin, and, to say the least, to my mind they are of a 
piece ! Such a letter! Humph ! ” 

Sophia might have reminded an observer of that 
graphic clause in Scripture, “ I will spew thee out of 
my mouth.” 

Miss Ewing rose and walked the floor. Presently 
she stopped in front of her informer. “ You had 
something else to tell me.” 

“ Yes’rn, I hed. I found Miss Bane in your linen- 
closet. I banged the door shut and turned the key 
on her.” 

“ Is she there now ? ” 

“ Yes’m, she is. She's ben there two hours an’ 
more.” 

“ Sophia ! she will smother ! This hot July day ! 
O 1 ” and Phebe started toward the hall. 

“Wait, ma’am. She’s all right. A little hot. 


180 


rilEBE, 


mebbe, but that’s all. The shove in the roof is open. 
I unfastened it myself, airly this morning, to let in a 
trifle of freshness.” 

Phebe, realizing that Miss Bane was perfectly safe 
as far as ventilation was concerned, sat down, mo- 
mentarily convulsed with laughter. Sophia shook 
in gleeful silence. 

“ I’m ready, ma’am, to let her out whenever you 
say so. 1 thought time and breath both would be 
saved if you saw her yourself in that closet.” 

The maid had properly estimated the flnal effect 
of this piece of news. The linen-closet was dear to 
Phebe. 'No one ever entered it besides herself and 
Sophia, except on those rare occasions when every 
thing was taken out, shaken, aired, and put back 
again. To some women their store-room, to others, 
their kitchen, is a sacred place, where no intruding 
foot may enter. To Phebe her linen-closet was such 
a domestic shrine. She was shocked, therefore, at 
the thought of prying eyes taking an inventory of 
that goodly store of housekeeping riches. Phebe 
spoke with less than her usual reserve. 

“ She has abused my hospitality. She cannot stay. 
She is not to be trusted out of our sight. Give me 
the key, Sophia.” 

In a white dress, the long, full, straight skirt flut- 
tering as she sailed majestically down the hall, her 
cheeks like crimson roses, an indignant sparkle in 
her usually mild eye, the key grasped in her white. 


CO UNTER mVESTlGA TIONS. 18 1 

mobile hand, slic miglit liavc been taken for a Tar^^eia 
holding the entrance to her citadel. 

But by the time she reached the closet door, and 
more quickly even than it can be told, she was ready 
to pause a second to collect herself. When she at 
length turned the bolt her sedate countenance gave 
no hint of the contempt and suspicion she felt. 

She opened the door. The light througli the slide 
in the roof was sufficient to reveal every thing, 
although the closet was gloomy and pungent with 
camphor. The orderly shelves stacked with their 
accumulated treasures were unharmed. Miss Banc 
could not have taken the room away bodily. As for 
that being herself, overcome with anxiety or the mo- 
notony of her confinement, she had fallen asleep. 

Phebe stood contemplating the limp, miserable 
figure, and as she did so felt more sorry than angr\", 
although there was no •waverinsf in her decision to 
take summary steps toward sending the interloper 
away. 

Sojfiiia’s prisoner had cast herself on the floor, and 
she sat leaning against the cedar chest, her head 
slightly thrown back, her mouth half open, revealing 
prominent, long teeth. 

She looks like a rat, ma’am.” The maid’s small, 
keen blue eyes peered at the hungry face as if it 
might disappear. 

At this juncture the prisoner stirred, slowly opened 
her eyes, and, vaguely taking in the situation, rose 


J82 


PIIEBE. 


irresolutely. Once on her feet, she was wide awake. 
AVithout any preface she began such a storm of re- 
proaches that, for a few moments, reply was im- 
possible. 

‘‘ It’s me did it ! ” said Sophia, autocratically. “ I 
only wish I could have turned a key on you when 
you came, apd you on the wrong side o’ the door.” 

“ Hush, Sophia. Miss Bane, as soon as you are 
calm I will talk to you. Come out into the hall.” 

“ I might have died. I am sure I am friglitened 
into a fever. You are very culpable. Miss Ewing, 
in keeping such servants. I knew that woman was 
dishonest and tricky the instant I looked at her. I 
have missed some clothing already.” 

‘‘Stop, Miss Bane. Sophia has lived here twenty- 
five years. If you breathe another word against her 
you will leave the house as soon as a carriage can be 
gotten ready to take you to the train. As it is, you 
must go away in the morning. 

O, Cousin Phebe, I did not think that you could 
ever forget to be amiable.” The sharp voice took on 
a wheedling tone. 

“ Thank God, ma’am, she is no cousin of yours ! ” 
Sophia heaved a mighty sigh of relief. 

Miss Ewing turned away in silent disgust. She 
bade the maid show Miss Bane down the front stairs 
to the porch. AValking swiftl}^ through the house to 
the bedroom she had given her pseudo relative, slie 
hastily examined closet and bureau, which even in 


COUNTER INVESTIGATIONS. 1S3 

that brief period had taken on a strange look of dis- 
order and nncleanliness. Tlie windows were down. 
Tlie air smelled close. Slie cast a single uncertain 
glance at the rickety trunk, then turned resolutely 
away. No! To that she had no right. She had 
given it harbor. If it did contain any thing of hers 
she must take the consequences of her foolish confi- 
dence. T'here was but one thing- remainino; to do — 
to watch the intruder till she was safely out of the 
house, and, as soon as this exit had been accomplished, 
to take steps toward dismissing Petrovsky. 

As the afternoon wore away, although the air was 
balmy, and the porch, under ordinary circumstances, 
would have been the most deliglitful spot on the 
premises. Miss Bane found it exceedingly irksome. 
At six o'clock Nanny brought her a bountiful supper 
on- a tray. The maid set the tray down at a little dis- 
tance, as if she feared contagion. 

“ Go up to my room and get my hat and umbrella. 
I want to take a walk after I have eaten my tea.” 

Nann}^ obeyed, but on her way through the dining- 
room repeated the order to Sophia. Sophia immedi- 
ately went to the front hall and looked out, but there 
was nothing to observe but the visitor eating with 
much apparent i-elish. Maria had been stationed in 
an easy -chair at the head of the stairs where she 
could command the situation. 

When Nanny returned with a very empty tray the 
Scotchwoman said, Come, sit here, where you can see 


184 


PIIEBE. 


\ 

all around and watcli till she comes back. I shall not 
feel easy till she is safely on the train for 'New York 
in the morning.” 

Sophia’s command was honey to J^anny, who will- 
ingly enough took the part of sentinel, as she was 
thereby relieved of some of her evening duties. 


! 










BISHOP MARTINEAU. 


185 


CHAPTER IL 

BISHOP MABTINEAIJ. 

The Sunday before tlie events narrated in the last 
chapter was full of holy suggestions of Sabbatli rest 
to Phebe when she stepped out on the lawn after 
breakfast. There was not a cloud in the sky. Even 
at that early hour the heat lent to the atmosphere a 
hazy, quivering blueness only seen in midsummer. 
The leaves were motionless. The usually abundant 
foliage had not yet lost its pristine freshness. The 
earth looked up to the sun with summer gladness, 
for the meridional fullness of the season had been 
reached. 

The mistress of Ewing Farm walked slowly over the 
thick, turf-like grass. She had a handful of crumbs, 
and she made a trail of them for the expectant robins, 
saucy and tame and fat. The sight rivaled that one 
so often seen in Yenice when, in the ancient square 
of St. Mark’s, the pigeons flock, covering with cooing 
fondness their benevolent almoners. But there no 
shade breaks the glare of the hot sun ; there the jos- 
tling of innumerable sight-seers despoils the pretty 
pantomime of privacy. At Ewing Farm on this Sab- 
bath morning no one was in sight but Phebe. 

She was already dressed for church, keeping up, as 


1S6 


PHEBE. 


most other residents of Killian Hook did, all the do- 
mestic proprieties of the sacred day, from early morn- 
ing until bed-time. Who shall saj^ she was not the 
gainer by this studious observance ? 

As few duties as jDOssible except religious ones in- 
vaded the sacred hours. All over the farm the free- 
dom of fewer cares was felt. The Sunday dinner, 
cooked on Saturday, left the housemaids with almost 
as much time as their mistress, and to Sophia’s truly 
devout nature these “ Sawbath ” opportunities for 
church-going and meditation made the greenest oasis 
of her life. 

A little later a stiff breeze blew from the sea. It 
led Phebe, notwithstanding the heat, to decide to 
start earlj^ and walk to service. There was a path 
through the fields to the Methodist church, shorten- 
ing the distance. It lay all the way through meadow- 
land, and the grass was starred with yellow and white 
daisies. 

She was a fine picture of vigorous womanhood as 
she pursued her solitary way. Nothing broke the 
deep quiet except the rustling leaves and the peal- 
ing of distant bells. 

The delicious air, the pervading peace, her perfect 
health and a serenity of heart which had been but once 
profoundly stirred, and then by death, made her re- 
sponsive to these lesser influences and inclined her far 
more sweetly for adoration and thanksgiving than 
clouds of incense or peal of organ or harmonious 


BISHOP MARTINEAU. 187 

cliurcli interior could have done. She loved aesthetic 
aids to worship ; but she did not depend on them. 

She was the first comer — a privilege to a reverent 
person. 

The white church stood on an eminence. A broad 
flight of stone steps led up a double terrace to the 
plateau on which it was built. The old-fashioned 
cupola with its lantern of windows, the long green 
blinds, the deep porch supported bj a row of wooden 
Corinthian columns, and every-where the ethereal blue- 
ness of an American sky might have brought to mind 
that quaint picture of Umbrian Perugino which Ra- 
phael so lovingly and immortally repeated in ‘‘ The 
Marriage of the Yirgin.” 

As Phebe in her white dress and white bonnet as- 
cended the steps she felt indeed that she was going 
up to the house of the Lord. She lingered on the 
porch to hear the high, echoing whisper of the wind 
in the bushy tops of the maples. She cast a loving 
glance at the grassy billows made by the resting- 
places of the dead on either side of the church. In 
one of the farther corners, the stillest spot in that 
God’s acre, her father and mother were laid. When 
she entered her pew she knew that the tall windows 
at its end overlooked that hallowed inclosure. They 
were so near. 

Shortly after she was seated the organist began to 
play. The Methodist church at the Hook possessed 
what is still rare in country districts, an excellent 


188 


PIIEDE. 


organ. The notes floated like prayers on the air, 
scented with the sweetness of cut grass. The texts 
on the tablets set in the wall were surcharged with 
solemn warning and heavenly consolation. She re- 
peated softly to herself that exquisite German hymn, 
“ It is the day of the Lord.” « 

The worshipers slowly gatliered. That Killian 
Hook congregation was a decorous one. 'No hasty 
footfalls were heard on the softly-carpeted aisles. 
No rustling of books or garments disturbed the quiet. 
Each knew his neighbor, and each family there was 
united to the others in the bonds of long association, 
a common respectability, and general respect. It was 
one of those church gatherings not infrequently seen 
in Hew England and the Middle States, where the 
proportion of true culture and the sense of honorable 
antecedents are sufficient to give to the humblest mem- 
ber a conserving consciousness of the place and name 
he has to maintain. 

As he walked up the aisle the pastor was accom- 
panied by a stranger. 

Phebe looked at this unknown minister with mild 
interest. She wondered if he would preach on this 
beautiful July day so suggestive to her of prayer and 
sermon. She was in that worshipful mood which 
comes to every devout, loving soul at times, when the 
words of the one hundred' and third psalm best ex- 
press the heart’s fullness : ‘‘ Bless the Lord, O my 
soul, and forget not all his benefits.” 


BISHOP MARTINEAU. 


189 


The bell was tolling its last invitation. It chimed 
at intervals with the other bells in the neighborhood. 
All at once, in liarmonious succession, each rang 
out its last notes, and that perfect stillness, found no- 
where but in the country in summer, reigned. 

She had been looking down, thinking of what a 
blessed thing it is just to live, resting in the more 
blessed expectation that this life, well spent, is but the 
threshold to a higher, deeper, fuller experience, when 
her attention was aroused by the announcement of 
the first hymn. 

When had she heard such a voice? Resonant, deep, 
tender, it was like a fire of soft persuasion burning 
the words into her memoiy ; not that she did not 
know them — she had repeated them from childhood-— 
but, hei*eafter, this voice Avould give a new meaning, 
a new fullness of appeal, a new and richer color to 
them, when she should sing them on Sunday after- 
noons : 

“I know no life divided, 

• 0 Lord of life, from thee ; 

In thee is life provided 
For all mankind and me : 

I know no death, 0 Jesus, 

Because I live in thee; 

Thy death it is which frees us 
From death eternally. 


“ I fear no tribulation, 

Since, whatsoe'er it be. 

It makes no separation 
Between my Lord and me. 


190 


PIIEBE. 


If thou, my G-od and Teacher, 

Youchsafe to be my own, 

Though poor, I shall be richer 
Than monarch on his. throne.” 

She joined in this hymn from the depths of de- 
voted faith. 

She had been so wisely reared, and had always had 
before her in her parents the example of such con- 
sistent Christian living, that she had glided nneon- 
scioiisly into the joys of a true personal experience. 
Her religious aspirations modified all those others in- 
cident to health and a high vitality, and, although life 
doubtless would bring to her, as to every mortal, dis- 
appointments, reverses, and manifold sadness, thus far 
she had been able to anticipate them with a loving 
fearlessness and a fervent belief that out of every ex- 
perience, if one would, lessons of comfort and wisdom 
might be drawn. 

She had grieved for her parents with a patient, rev- 
erent self-restraint, at once taking up the duties of 
her life and position as they presented themselves. 
She had set aside her intense longing to see John and 
have his advice, because she had believed that his 
protracted stay in Australia would be for his good. In 
each of these efforts she had grown stronger. 

On this Sabbath a peculiar grace was vouchsafed 
her, and, in the trials which followed so shortly, the 
peaceful, glad day full of sunshine, prayer, and a 
secret consecration of herself to higher living, often 


BISHOP MARTINEA U. 


191 


recurred to her with its sacred influences as a brigrht 
light shining in a dark place. 

The stranger also led in prayer. A solemn influ- 
ence pervaded the congregation, for the prayer came 
from a heart that had sought and found some of the 
deep things of God. It contained none of that analy- 
sis of the divine character which is such an affront to 
a worshipful listener, assuming to define the Creator 
to himself. It contained none of those ornate terms 
of eulogy, as if the embassador of the Lord Jesus 
were an Italian courtier with the tactics of Machia- 
velli. It presented no summary of what an admirable 
moral being man is, notwithstanding his defects. It 
was not so much a prayer of petition as an ascription 
of thanksgiving ; not so much a prayer of contrition 
as of reverent gladness that Christ was still in the 
world through the Holy Spirit. It did not so much 
appeal to God as a ruler as it did to him as father; 
and the blessings it did implore were grace, peace, 
higher illumination through the sacrifice of self. It 
was full of that loftiest of all altruism, the Christian 
consecration of life, with all its powers and opportuni- 
ties, on the altar of Christian effort. 

When Phebe lifted her head it was with wondering 
reverence. She looked curiously at the man who had 
stirred the depths of her heart. There was nothing 
unusual about him as she first glanced at his face. 
It was a good face; 3’es, all that indeed. Strength 
and gentleness were the characteristics of each feature. 


192 


PUEBE. 


Presently lie lifted liis eyes and looked out over 
the congregation a little wearily, very thoughtfully, 
and with that fine unconsciousness which marks the 
truly great public man. 

She could not tell the color of these eyes, but she 
felt that their expression was one of intense quietness 
and purity. In glancing over his attentive listeners 
they met hers, and for a second lingered, as if to read 
the soul that was seeking to know the full secret of 
the power which every one had felt. 

When the pastor introduced his companion there 
was the faintest rustle of satisfaction, a decorous set- 
tling back into the seats with grave and gratified 
expectation. The Killian Hook Methodists were 
informed that they were to listen to one of the 
bishops. 

Ko sermon on paper is the same as the spoken 
sermon. Suffice it to say that although this particular 
one violated all our modern canons concerning the 
length of pulpit discourses, and especially in sum- 
mer, there was no one present — except a restless 
boy, who was wisely allowed to steal out like a guilty 
culprit at twelve o’clock, and one meek little dam- 
sel who forgot her weariness and her fidgets in a 
sweet sleep — that would have had it shortened . 
by a single word. When it was finished there was 
a loosening of the tension which only eloquence can 
produce. 

Perhaps one of the best evidences a minister can 


BISHOP MARTINEAU. 


193 


have of the influence he has exerted lies in the rever- 
ence and zeal with which a congregation joins in the 
closing acts of worship. There was not a mute 
tongue that day when the doxology was sung. Tlie 
clear voice of youth and the quavering treble of age 
united. When the benediction was pronounced, each 
felt that he had indeed been in the very holy of holies 
of the Christian temple. 

Phebe lingered with many others, for another old 
fashion that still obtained at Killian Hook was for 
members of the congregation, who felt thus disposed, 
to stop to speak to the minister. 

In this brief interview many a piece of advice is 
wisely dropped, many a tribute of help afforded is 
offered and serves as an inspiration to a Christian 
teacher who often and often sadly wonders if he has 
spoken a word in season.” Doubtless this good old 
custom has in most cases been wisely abandoned, for 
in this rushing age a thousand sweet courtesies of the 
olden time have to be at least suspended. 

But in many things Killian Hook had not quite 
kept up with the times ; but, on the other hand, it had 
preserved such a quaint, true refinement and courtli- 
ness that no one ever went there without feeling the 
contagion of its restfulness and the blessed liberty of 
leisure. 

Bishop Martineau had enjoyed the Killian Hookers 
as much as they had enjoyed him. He was a big, 

strong man — in this respect a good shepherd, for his 
13 


194 


PHEBE. 


strength did not need to be homeopathicallj distrib- 
uted. 

As lie stood talking to Phebe, and, in his pleasure 
in her, insisted on detaining her with ona interesting 
remark after another when she would have with- 
drawn, he thought her not only as fair as that perfect 
summer day, but also as possessing tlie same Sabbath 
peacefulness. She was the kind of woman to make a 
tired man feel rested. 

The minister and his wife also took the patli home 
through the fields. This day, without agreement, they 
found themselves walking on and on with Phebe, and 
finally it resulted in the bishop leading the way with 
Miss Ewing. 

It would be quite as useless to repeat their conver- 
sation and give its tone as it would have been to re- 
peat the sermon. It \yas a conversation on religious 
subjects, and yet Phebe, like the true farmer that she 
was, called attention to the beauty of the wheat-fields, 
many of them already cut and the others turning a 
golden brown witli the fullness of perfect ripeness. 
She pointed out the landmarks along the Sound, and 
when they came in sight of her strip of woods slie 
said with a gentle tone of gratified possession, “ My 
place begins there.” 

“ I shall be in Killian Hook a month, off and on, 
and if you will allow me I will walk over and see 
Ewing Farm. Church matters require my presence 
near New York, and 1 have come here because I have 


BISHOP MAKTIKEA U, 


195 


been told tliat it is tlie most peaceful, recuperative 
spot ill the United States.” 

She laughed and shook her head a little incredu- 
lously, but her tongue was loosened, and the Hook 
had the most eloquent eulogist that the bishop had 
yet heard. 

Finally the paths parted. Phebe continued through 
the fields, while the others took the highway. She 
^vas still in the range of their vision, walking in that 
sea of greenness. 

The bishop was like every other unpossessed man 
who met her, and yet oddly enough, as he thought of 
her and watched her, lines of Mrs. Browning occurred 
to him : 

“None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall, 

They knelt more to God than they used, 

That was all ! ” 

As for Pliebe, no poetry occurred to her, but at last 
on the firmament of her serenity and pastoral happi- 
ness a new star had shone, although she failed to com- 
prehend fully its splendor. She simply felt, without 
analysis or induction, that, excepting her father and 
John, she had now met the first man who satis- 
fied her. 

If only the bishop could see Killian Hook through 
her eyes, and if only every thing would be at its best 
when he called ; if only, rather, he could truly think 
Ewing Farm as restful as other places to which he 
would be invited ! 


m 


rUEBE. 


Like every otlier natural woman under tlie sun, slie 
liad settled in lier mind before reaching home the 
dress she would have on if she knew of liis call in 
time. She would wear her lavender crepe-de-chine^ 
for it was the most becoming of all her summer 
gowns. 


A SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCE. 


197 


CHAPTER III. 

A SUDDEN DISAPPEAKANCE. 

When Miss Bane started on lier walk slie hadn’t a 
clear.idea of where she was going. Wliile sitting on 
tlie porch she had felt a great vacuum in the place of 
her usual inventive faculty. It began to appear diffi- 
cult to her to effect a lodgment at Ewing Farm. Time 
\vas the only desideratum. 

But the kindling light of unqualified mistrust and 
contempt in Miss Ewing’s eye — that light which the 
vicious are quick to interpret — was a warning signal 
that even her audacity respected. The frank and the 
desperate know when they are on the losing side. 
Miss Bane belonged to the latter class. 

She had laid her plans in the morning to awe Phebe 
with her knowledge of books. Her quick eye had 
soon embraced the range of the miscellaneous but 
carefully selected library. There was something ex- 
asperating to her disorderly soul in the neat, long rows 
of volumes arranged wdtli regard to topic only when 
it suited the requisition of the cases and tlie size of 
the editions. But to Miss Ewing, knowing by heart 
the name and appearance of each one of her treasures, 
no sight was pleasanter than the regularity of those 
regiments of authors. If they had Ixien suddenly 


198 


rilEBE. 


marshaled into life she would have expected them to 
keep step with militaiy precision. Miss Bane had in- 
tended very wisely to open her attack on their unsci- 
entific arrangement, which was so unlike that of the 
Boston public libraries. She had gotten so far in her 
plan of upsetting their absurd order while by herself 
as to assort two or three lopsided “literary” piles in 
various parts of the sitting-room. Even to her they 
did not look at home, and she regretfully restored 
them to the cases, sighing over the willful aspect of 
affairs. Her second coup would be to offer to cata- 
logue the volumes. This certainly would wear the air 
of much gratuitious benevolence, for it would take 
much time and justify her presence in medias res. 
Miss Ewing would doubtless feel under heavy obliga- 
tions for such an expenditure of strength. Beyond all 
this, that inventory might be useful, for, wherever she 
went, she inventoried, with a view to future possibil- 
ities. The linen-closet had at once presented a field 
in this respect, but, for a long time, at least, that would 
be a sealed avenue. The silver would be a short affair 
if she could only outwit Sophia at some general clean- 
ing-time. For, in her mind, when she leaned out of 
the window the morning after her arrival to view 
this land of promise, she saw herself eventually co- 
possessor with its mistress and, perhaps in the strange 
turning of the wheel of time always so favorable to 
the imaginative, Phebe’s successor, through some proc- 
ess peculiar to Miss Bane of investing herself with 


A SUBDEX DISArPEA/iAXCE. • 109 

others’ rights and consigning to them her misfort- 
unes. 

As she sat on the porch, a quasi prisoner, through 
the unspoken but moral uprising of a whole house- 
. hold, inventories, partnership of interests, and final 
possession seemed depressingly vague. 

Kanny, whether through undue solicitude or pity- 
ing kindness, had also brought the odorous water- 
proof. Out under the shade of the trees Miss Bane 
felt the need of its warmth, and she put it on, its 
mud-stained boundary trailing on the ground, while 
her furtive eyes glanced hither and thither in search 
of a suggestion from without, since none came from 
within. She accidentally struck a foot-path ; it led 
down the side of the kitchen garden. 

Sophia watched her from an upper window. When 
she was partially lost in the shadow of .the hollyhocks, 
lifting their corn-colored blossoms resolutely to the 
sky like votive offerings to the setting sun, the Scotch- 
woman shook her head and wished that vision of the 
strange intruder might be the last. 

At the end of the path Miss Bane came to a gate 
opening on a bit of sloping upland terminating in the 
oak and chestnut belt. The sun was far enough 
above the horizon to cast long bands of light 
beneath the trees, giving the woods an enchanting 
effect. 

Up the slope she slowdy trudged, a spot of black- 
ness on the vivid green. She soon reached the strip 


200 


PHEBE. 


of sliadow cast by tlio trees, tlien passed athwart a 
broad band of light, like an eclipse, and was lost to 
sight. 

Sophia hastily limped down-stairs to Nanny. 

“ Did you see where she went ? ’’ 

That careless maid shook her head affirmatively. 

“ Well, don’t budge from this spot, if it is ten 
o’clock, for she’ll have to come back the same way, 
and the Lord only knows what mischief she’ll bring 
with her. Miss Ewing had ought to have sent her 
off immediate.” 

‘‘ Gracious, Sophia, what harm can she do, outside? 
I aint a-goin’ to set here to bed-time, for Tim’s coinin’ 
a-courtiii’ to-night. She’ll be afraid to be out in a 
strange place till it gets real dark.” 

‘‘ No, she wont ! She aint the kind to be afraid 
of the dark nor nothin’ else. You set here, anyway, 
till I get the supper things done, and then I’ll come 
and take your place. She wont get into this house 
without my seeing her. I wish tlie ghost of old 
Cap’n Tucker that walks those woods niglits ’d meet 
her ; that’s wliat I wish ! ” Sophia’s small blue eyes 
dilated with superstitious awe. “ It’s only ghosts 
and evil speerits that can understand the ways of 
such.” 

Miss Bane’s brain still continued destitute of ideas^ 
as she stepped into the solemn glory of the illumi- 
nated woodland. Each spear of frail forest grass, a 
bed of spicy pennyroyal, a strip of moss-covered rock, 


A SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCE. 201 

glowed brilliantly in the waning golden light. She 
stood thinking a long while in the midst of the 
weird splendor. 

Suddenly the shadow covered every thing like a 
pall, and the long summer twilight began. She pene- 
trated the woods a little farther. Then she sat down 
on a rock, her face toward the red glow beginning in 
the west. 

Petrovsky had finished his evening work earlier 
than his wont. His reticent face was hopeful, llis 
large eyes shone. He went up to his room and 
dressed. He bore less the manner of a farm-hand 
than usual. Taking a stout walking-stick of black 
oak from a corner of his room, he went out and struck 
a path leading across the woods toward Killian Hook. 

Long before he reached the limp figure sitting in 
a little heap on the rock he paused, and his sun- 
browned face turned a sickly yellow. Por the light 
brought Miss Bane out like an etching, and Petrovsky 
knew her from afar. 

He turned around to go back ; then a great fear 
took possession of him lest she might have effected 
an entrance at the house, for her ways were unpleas- 
antly familiar to him. An axiom he instantly decided 
upon was that Jane Bane and Nicholas Petrovsky 
could not occupy the same place at the same time. 
A bi’utal ugliness that his face but faintly suggested, 
usually, and which had been discovered only by the 
watchful Sophia, animated every feature as he moved 


202 


rilEBE. 


swiftly and stealthily forward over the mossy, spongy 
soil and suddenly confronted her. 

She sprang to her feet with a shrill, smothered cry. 
Hashing toward him, she would have sprung into his 
arms. 

He raised his walking-stick to ward her off, and 
then, while she stood, dismayed and breathless, he 
said, composedly : 

“ Sit down, tTane, and explain yourself. What 
mischief are you in now?” 

She sank on the rock. He threw himself on the 
ground a short distance away, and, continuing to re- 
gard her with an expression of brutal determination, 
said : 

“ Be brief.” 

She was strangely under his influence. She twisted 
her hands in and out of each other, wriggled uncer- 
tainly on the rock, and finally ejaculated : 

Have mercy, Petrovsky. I looked for 3’ou every- 
where in Boston. At last I have found you by the 
merest chance ! ” 

If you mean that I am to let you remain here, I 
have no mercy. If you mean that j'Ou have claims 
on me for mercy, you are mistaken. We are birds of 
a feather, Jane.” 

‘‘ You promised to marry me if I would join the 
Brotherhood of Anarchy.” 

“ You belonged to that order from your birth, 
Jane. If you had never known me it would have 


A SUDDEX DISAPPEARANCE. 


203 


been the same. You have been a sbwer of discord 
ever since I met you.” 

“ Never for you, Petrovsky. I studied to please 
you. I love you. You promised me.” 

‘‘ Always consider the source, Jane, before you 
believe a promise. I did ask you to marry me. 
Why ? I needed you in that order. 1 saw that you 
would be very useful. You were. You promised to 
marry me in the beginning for sordid reasons. An 
unfortunate love for me surprised you. You must get 
over it. There is nothing in the bark of ray tree, 
Jane, for parasites to cling to. What brought you 
here ? ” 

lie rested his elbow on the eartli, his head 
in his hand, and looked up at her with cold 
curiosity. 

Her full eyes contracted an instant. Their stony 
look gradually burned to a white sparkle of hate. 

“ I have come to my relations.” 

“And they wont receive you. I know the signs 
of defeat. You are insane, Jane. You related to 
Miss Ewing ! Never ! It would take ages to evolve 
you from such stock — ages of degeneracy. Why, 
Jane, I have learned a trifle about goodness here. 
I’m not good. I never intend to be. Down in yon- 
der house there is a little of something so real that even 
I haven’t found myself quite ready, yet, to sj^oil such 
an Eden. I can understand that you would have no 
compunctions. Made cut of what we despise, Jane, 


204 


rilEBE. 


• — thrift, lioncsty, as tlie world accounts lioncstj, for 
several generations. I have come to the conclusion 
that such things pay. Stop leaning. Stop these 
imaginary misappropriations. You are rather clever, 
Jane. It is true it is no longer hardly safe for you 
in J3oston. There is Chicago, a universal reservoir. 
Try your swimming capacity there. It wont bo 
worth your while to be dishonest. Don’t be honest. 
Make a chemist’s balance between the two. You’ll 
succeed. With such a policy and hard work — hard 
work, Jane ! — there is a glorious career before you. 
You’ll succeed. And you had better be starting, 
for you must leave here to-night.” 

She sprang to her feet. The waterproof dropped 
to the ground. Her small, wiry, slovenly figure 
trembled with rage. She tried to sj^eak, but only a 
hoarse sound issued from her throat. 

Petrovsky smiled, cast his eyes down indolently, 
and waited. 

She sat down again, at length. 

Are you ready, now, Jane, to hear me out ? I 
liave a proposition to make, a command to lay on 
you. I have some money put by, money hardly earned. 
Moreover, the past summer I have come into j^osses- 
sion of a fortune from Kussia. Wealth has quite 
another aspect from a possessor’s point of view. I in- 
tend^ now, to be a man of affairs — here, in this spot, 
shortly. Ho more strikes for me ! Ho more secret 
Hihilistic societies. I’ll give you two hundred dol- 


A SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCE. 


20b. 


lars and your fare to Chicago for silence on yoH| j^art 
and a promise never to sliow your face at Itillian 
Hook again. If you stay I’ll make certain revela- 
tions in Boston. If you ever trouble me again I’ll 
betray your implication in a particular incendiarism 
besides.” 

She sat buried in profound thought. Here was a 
person who had her at an advantage — an abettor in 
the past, and yet in such a way that while she was 
criminal before the law he was not. She did as she 
always had done, after a brief weighing of conditions 
— swallowed pride, obstinacy, and design, and com- 
posedly accepted her fate. 

Looking up and pointing backward, she said : 

I have a trunk down there.” 

“ How much is it worth ? ” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“ Will another hundred make you willing to lose 
it?” 

“ A hundred and fifty.” 

“ Yery well.” 

He took a long flat pocket-book from his breast- 
2:)ocket, slowly counted out the required sum, which 
she carefully recounted, then folded and pinned inside 
her dress. 

Petrovsky now rose. 

“ I’ll walk with you to Killian Hook and see you 
on the night express.” 

She pulled herself together, and, picking up the 


206 


PllEBE. 


black heap at her feet, fastened it around her narrow 
shoulders, cast a cold, acquiescent look at her com- 
panion, and followed him as he moved forward along 
the narrow path. 

A premature cricket uttered a melancholy chirp. 
The stars had begun to shine through the tree-tops. 
It was rapidly growing dark. When they reached 
the highway the obscurity of the moonless and par- 
tially cloudy sky made a sufficient shield from curious 
passers-by. The walk was a long one. Petrovsky 
took the precaution to keep her in the outskirts of 
the town, when he found that there was a little time 
to spare, till he judged it expedient to go to the 
station. 

Few of the peaceful inhabitants of Killian Hook 
were ever bound cityward at that hour. He assumed 
a grim hilarity of manner when he found that they 
were the sole occupants of the waiting-room at the 
station. He bought a ticket to Hew York, scribbled 
the name of a cheap hotel on a bit of the margin of 
an abandoned newspaper lying on one of the seats, 
and stealthily walked up and down in the brief period 
till he heard the distant rumble of wheels. Then he 
led the solitary passenger out on the platform, handed 
her the ticket and name of the hotel as the train 
halted, picked her up bodily with his two muscular 
hands as she attempted to reach the high steps of the 
platform, and watched her go inside with wicked glee. 

As the train rolled away he softly rubbed his hands 


A SUDDEN DJSAPPEAItANCE. 


207 


together, opened his moutli wide and langhcd noise- 
lessly ; and then, looldng on every side as if deciding 
what to do next, and all at once seeing himself ob- 
served by the ticket-agent, who bad locked the office 
and sauntered out, Petrovsky stepped off the platform 
and disappeared along the track in the darkness. 


208 


rilEBE. 


CHAPTER lY. 

NICHOLAS PETKOVSKY. 

When Petrovsky plunged into tlic darkness his 
thoughts were a curious mingling of conspiracy, love, 
and hope. 

The exiled son of a Russian general, a sympathizer 
with the socialistic schemes of the German proletariat, 
and with a sluggish nature full of the hypocrisy and 
pessimism which Russian politics have engendered, 
he had drifted to Killian Hook after a brief and un- 
fortunate sojourn in Boston, remaining in a spirit of 
unambitious fatalism where he had first found work. 
There he had taken root, there he would remain. It 
was the first time in his life that Petrovsky had en- 
gaged in manual labor, but a nature that was all ob- 
servation and philosophizing, together with a life-long 
and genuine interest in farm-life, had enabled him by 
the time Phebe came into possession of the Ewing 
homestead to acquire a fund of practical and theoretic 
information on agriculture which he generally wisely 
applied. As he looked back on that first year of 
exile it presented a memory of dissipation, intrigues 
with anarchists, and disgrace ; after that the perspect- 
ive began gradually to fill with Phebe as a human- 
istic study. He had found himself watching her with 


NICHOLAS PETROVSKY. 


209 


a personal interest wliicli lie was slow to recognize. 
Sucli a wonian was an anomaly, and would of necessity 
have been so to any foreigner. Self-respecting yet 
modest, independent yet retiring, lovable yet intensely 
practical, and withal wdth such a fearless, frank as- 
sumption of a special place in the world without refer- 
ence to natural or matrimonial connections, she was 
simply a mystery to him. witli which, notwithstand- 
ing his half-civilized conceptions of wmman, he was 
charmed and puzzled both. 

lie stood sometimes in a distant field watching for 
the flash of color in her dress, and wmuld then turn 
to his work with a long, satisfied sigh, feeding on that 
vision till another replaced it. For months he con- 
tentedly acquiesced in this mere propinquity without 
thought of alteration in his fortune, without the usual 
aspiration to become better acquainted with a woman 
who possessed his entire thought. _ Then his sluggish 
passivity changed, and he began to form plan« by 
which he could gradually transform his social basis 
toward his mistress and still remain where he could 
see her daily. His brutal, sensuous, self-indulgent, 
Slavic nature, and withal a cold one, desired to rule 
supremely. He was a master ; Phebe was his servant, 
wife, slave, in a literal oriental sense. To compass 
this end had been his dream for a year day and night. 
Meanwhile General Petrovsky had died soon after 
effecting a reconciliation with the Kussian government 

for his son, and had also left a substantial fortune, the 
14 


210 


PHEBE. 


chief portion of which was, however, in land. Suffi- 
cient money had come to the exile to make labor un- 
necessary and doubly irksome. When a female ac- 
complice in one of the secret orders now only too 
common in America, and hereafter to make in the 
history of this country a chapter of horrors as dark as 
the darkest pages of our civil war, appeared at 
Killian Hook, and Petrovsky saw his schemes in dan- 
ger of utter annihilation, an impulse had seized him 
to murder Jane. He had some vivid recollections of 
using the knout on distant Russian steppes till inter- 
ference even with passing whims was rendered forever 
impossible. The impulse had passed, and he had dis- 
posed of her as we liave seen. But this threatened 
crisis rendered him eager and determined to consum- 
mate another matter immediately. It was he who 
liad first suggested to Mr. Mills a ready and large 
market for the timber-belt, for Petrovsky had heard 
all about the mortgage from Mr. Ewing long before, 
in one of those garrulous confidences on private affairs 
which the aged indulge in. 

As the mortgage had stood through years of her 
father’s life, and as he had been content with the 
generous living Ewing Farm afforded, expecting a large 
future market for his land, so Phebe had continued 
his easy methods of expenditure, and had had besides 
a monthly allowance that John had been sending her 
for two years. 

It was with a peculiar confidence, therefore, in the 


NICHOLAS PETROVSKY. 


211 


stability of lier position, and with a belief that Mr. 
Mills would not press a foreclosure, that she had pre- 
sented a haughty indifference to his menace. 

As the evening closed in and the intense stillness 
heightened her apprehensions, she thought with deep 
perplexity of the occurrences of the morning. 

Before sitting down, Phebe had bade Sophia attend 
to Miss Bane’s wants and, if possible, keep her out of 
sigld. With characteristic determination, she had de- 
cided to wash her hands of the adventuress, except to 
offer a parting gift of money. 

Meanwhile the evening wore away. Sophia took 
Nanny’s seat outside the kitchen door, watching with 
unflagging vigilance the point where the narrow path 
emerged from the garden. 

After Petrovsky had walked over the ties for a 
half mile, the glimmer of lights 'in the windows of a 
house on quite an elevation attracted his attention. 
He stopped a moment irresolutely. If he lingered 
he might be unable to enjoy his customary inspection 
of Miss Ewing through the windows; on the otlim* 
hand, if he hastened matters, this stealthy enjoyment 
might speedily be changed into something far more 
compensatory. He looked wistfully toward Ewing 
Farm ; then he began to clamber up the hill through 
the fields. 

It was ten o’clock when he tapped on Mr. Mills’s 
window. At that instant this worthy was studying 
a map of the county of which Killian Hook was a 


212 


PHEBE. 


part. He had been measuring distances from Hew 
York, estimating present and future values of the fine 
old farms that had hut just begun to feel the fever of 
land speculation. When Petrovsky tapped, his deep- 
set, spectacled eyes were closely studying the dimen- 
sions of Ewing Farm. 

Like many another functionary of an old neighbor- 
hood of singularly upright people, Mr. Mills was a 
nearly utterly worthless specimen of humanity ; but, 
by some strange logic not applicable in their own cases, 
the worse he became as a citizen the better he was as 
a real estate asrent in the estimation of his neighbors. 

Long ago he and Petrovsky had affiliated. Their 
intimacy was not suspected. Mr. Mills lived alone, 
and Petrovsky’s visits were of necessity nocturnal. 
At various times the two had met on the farm and 
appraised different situations, until the Pussian was 
already owner in imagination of the most eligible por- 
tions ; and as for the rest, that would be his by right of 
Phebe’s dower — if not legally, by a force of will he 
knew how to use when the right time came. 

When the agent heard the familiar tap he sprang to 
his feet, unlocked and opened the window, and Pe- 
trovsky with a bound vaulted in. Mr. Mills viewed 
his agility with admiring envy. He respected Pe- 
trovsky’s youth and strength, and treated him with 
that humbleness which is the reward of a man of 
higher attainments when he becomes intimate with 
his inferiors. All Petrovsky wanted of Mr. Mills 


NICHOLAS PETROVSKY. 


213 


was the foreclosure ; he was also starving for com- 
panionship, and the agent was at least a link with 
his fellovv-meii. 

“Well, Petrovsky, I’ve done it. I did it this 
morning.” 

The Russian silently clasped his large hands. 

“ What did she say ? ” 

“Well ” — Mr. Mills expectorated the length of the 
room — “she defied me ! ” 

Petrovsky’s yellow eyes expanded. They shone till 
they w^ere luminous. He brought his fist down heavily 
on the table. “ There is no time to lose. Write out 
the notices and get them printed and placarded within 
a week. See here ! ” He drew out the large fiat 
pocket-book from which he had already relieved Jane’s 
necessities and, opening it, displayed its contents. 

A greedy, envious light crept into the agent’s eyes. 

“ The amount of the mortgage is there — every cent. 
You have not told Miss Ewing, of course, of the pro- 
posed buyer.” 

“ Ho ; I gave you my word I wouldn’t. I want my 
bonus too badly, or I would. I should like to see her 
receive the news.” 

“ That is my affair — mine ! ” and Petrovsky, tilting 
his chair against the wall, looked at the ceiling, smil- 
ing triumphantly. “Suppose you write that notice 
out now. Do it right away, for I must be getting 
back.” 

“ Might as well, I suppose.” Mr. Mills drew paper 


214 


PHEBE. 


and ink toward liim, and, screwing his forehead with 
legal pomposity, was presently inditing the customary 
formula. 

“ There ! ” He handed the paper to Petrovsky. 

The Russian turned his back to the light, held the 
advertisement liigh before his eyes, and read it aloud. 

‘Hs this public notice for tliree successive weeks 
necessar}^ ? Does the law require it ? ’’ 

“ Unfortunately, yes. There is such a spirit of 
clanship in Killian Hook that, if Miss Ewing once 
aired her grievances, there would be a score of help- 
ers w‘ithin that time ; but the Ewings were alwaj'S a 
silent ra’ce in times of trouble. The more ado we 
make, tlie more self-possessed outwardly she will be. 
There lies our hope.” 

Petrovsky sat silent a few minutes longer; then 
sprang to his feet, and saying “ Good-night ” made his 
exit as he had entered — through the window. Mr. 
Mills watched the Russian disappear in the gloom. 
The envious light crept back into his eyes as he 
thouglit of the pocket-book. “ If I had only dared ! ” 

When the farmer reached the Ewing lawn he be- 
held a broad glare of light shining through the kitch- 
en-door, and on the outskirts of that light, her face in 
strong relief, the vigilant Sopliia with her keen eyes 
fixed in the direction of the kitchen-garden. He at 
once comprehended tlie situation and indulged in one 
of his noiseless laughs. His whole frame was con- 
vulsed with merriment. Presently coming into full 


NICHOLAS PETROVSKY. 


215 


view, and the Scotchwoman instantly perceiving him, 
he sauntered toward her with a solemn mien. 

“You are up late, Sophia.” 

“Well I may he, ISTicholas Petrovsky. Miss 
Ewing has been harboring a tramp for the past 
twenty-four hours ; and as she insists on keeping the 
creature till morning I’m bound to see when she 
comes in.” 

“ Is she out, then ? ” 

“ She went to yonder woods after supper, and hasn’t 
come back yet. Slip’s not a New York tramp — they 
are bad enough — but a Boston one. You can tell them 
every time. They wear these long, vile-smelling wa- 
terproofs, and don’t even pretend to believe in God. 
This one spins about eternal varities and such things. 
If I set here till midnight she wont get in without 
my seeing her.” 

“ I think I saw such a woman boarding the night 
express an hour and more ago.” 

“ A little thing that bounced and wriggled both as 
she walked ? ” 

Nicholas laughed. “ The very same.” 

Sophia sprang to her feet electrified. 

“ She’s left a great big trunk here. Like as not it 
is full of dynamite ! ” 

“ I shouldn’t wonder. Show me the trunk.” 

Setting aside, for the time being, all animosities 
and repugnances, she limped into the house, and, 
seizing a lamp, preceded Petrovsky to Miss Bane’s 


216 


PHEBE. 


room. Tliere stood tlie battered, ancient trunk; its 
bands and triple locks, however, securelj defending 
the mysterious contents. 

The maid looked at the Hussiaii and tlien at the 
trunk again, suggesting: 

You are very strong and your hands are steady, 
Petrovsk3\ They say dynamite and nitro-glycerine 
need a shock to explode them. If I helped you shoul- 
der it, don’t you think you could carry that trunk 
safely down-stairs and set it at a distance from the 
house ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“Well, then.” She deposited her lamp and pro- 
ceeded cautiously to help Nicholas shoulder the trunk. 

The Russian moved sedately and steadily out of 
the room ; he descended the stairs without accident, 
and then, turning his head to give Sophia a parting 
glance, he said : , ' 

“I’ll carry it to the brook behind the barn and 
stand it in the water ; shall I ? ” 

Sophia nodded delightedly and cried, “ Any thing, 
any thing, so that we are well rid of it. The brook 
will be a good place for it, though. Put it in the 
deep hole and wet it through and through.” 

She made a prayer of inordinate length that night 
composed of several distinct petitions : first, that the 
removal of one “ evil speerit ” might be followed by 
the speedy disappearance of the other ; secondly, that 
if destruction lurked in that trunk it might be con- 


mo II OLA S PETR 0 VSK Y. 


217 


fined where it belonged ; and as this request was 
fervently uttered slie seemed to See the trunk and 
the Russian buried in a common ruin ; thirdly, that 
Master John should come home without delay. 

Petrovsky’s delight in gaining possession of Jane 
Bane’s trunk, was so great that, in an examination of 
its contents, he even forgot his customary night watch 
over his mistress. 

When Sophia, before retiring, and after donbly 
locking doors and windows with that nervous inse- 
curity one feels just after a danger is happily over, 
went to her mistress to announce Miss Bane’s depart- 
ure she found Phebe serenely reading her evening 
chapter. 

“ ^ lie gave his angels charge concerning thee,’ 
ma’am ; she’s gone, bag and baggage ! ” 

“ Who is gone, Sophia ? ” 

“ Her ! ” and the Scotchwoman pointed toward the 
vacant chamber in the wing. 

“ Miss Bane ? ” 

“Yes’rn;” and Sophia volubly related the occur- 
rences of the last few hours. 

Phebe sat with eyes dilated, an anxious expression 
on her countenance. 

A woman alone in Hew York, late at night! It 
is not right.” 

“ It’s more right than what was. You hev hed a 
great escape, ma’am. She ken take better care of 
herself than some other people I know ken of their- 


218 


PIIEBE, 


selves. I hope you’ll excuse the liberty of speech, 
Miss Phebe.” 

“ Take that for granted, Sophia,” said Miss Ewing, 
* affectionately, as she rose and closed her Bible. ‘‘ Let 
us go to bed and forget this unpleasant episode. 
Goodruight.” 



THE CURATE SETTLES HIS FATE. 


219 


CHAPTER Y. 

THE CURATE SETTLES HIS FATE. 

Several days elapsed at Ewing Farm without fur- 
ther developments, for Miss Ewing had decided that 
she could not dismiss Petrovsky till tlie end of liis 
montli. In this interval she had done much thinking. 
Tlie result of her cogitations was visible in nothing 
further than a journey to Hew York, the object of 
wdiich she concealed even from Sophia. When she 
returned, however, her countenance wore a relieved 
look; and she penned a letter to Mabel tliat same 
evening to hasten the proposed visit to Killian Hook 
as rapidly as possible. 

She had gone to Hew York for two reasons: first, 
to try to gain news from John through dispatches, in 
order to urge his immediate return. After several 
hours of effort, by means of the Australian firm with 
which he was connected, and various banking-houses 
between Melbourne and Italy, she was enabled to 
trace him as far as Rome. She knew, therefore, that 
with constant travel he was within a fortnight of 
home, at least, although, doubtless, he was nearer 
tlian she dared hope — perhaps as far as Paris. She 
could learn nothing more definite, however, than tliat 
he had left Rome. Her second object was to confer 


220 


PHEBE. 


with an aged lawyer, a friend of her father, and one 
whom she knew he had consulted on rare occasions. 

The old gentleman smiled at what Phebe consid- 
ered a desperate plight, and in a half hour had given 
an altogether different aspect to affairs. 

. “ You say there are ninety acres, Miss Ewing, nearly 

all under cultivation, and every one available for fut- 
ure building sites? I went over the farm five years 
ago with your father and advised him then to let the 
mortgage rest and to hold on to every inch until there 
was a boom at the Hook. I told him to enjoy life as 
he went along, for tlie farm itself was a future fort- 
une. I think so still ; that rascally Mills thinks so 
too. Of course, he has a buyer in the background, 
and a fine big percentage secured for himself, or he 
wouldn’t risk the opprobrium of such a deed. But, 
Miss Phebe, you will have to learn one thing these 
days : a man will do almost any thing for money.” 

‘‘ I am sure you would not, Mr. Kelso.” 

“AYell, well! Kot where you are concerned. I 
have my temptations, I have my temptations. 
"What I want you to do is this: Let Mills go the 
full length of his tether ; let him get up all his steam 
and spread every sixil. He’ll advertise, the first thing. 
You will have to endure seeing bills stuck up all over 
Killian Hook with a description of your place and 
‘Foreclosure Sale’ staring at you wherever you go. 
Let the sale come off. I’ll have three or four men on 
hand to bid as high or higher than any one Mills will 


THE CURATE SETTLES HIS FATE. 221 

be likely to muster. The mischief of it is, the land 
will doubtless be sold for double the price of the pres- 
ent mortgage, and you will be just that much out of 
pocket. It will pay you ! it will pay ! You give me 
permission to buy it in for you to be returned to you 
under form of mortgage for me to hold, whatever the 
price. It wouldn’t do to buy Mills off, I suppose ? ” 

“ No, no ! ” She shook her head vehemently. He 
is determined to own tlie woodland, either by private 
purchase from me or by public sale. I cannot have 
any thing further to do with him.” 

“ All right ; then I’ll go ahead, and you may return 
home assured that I will do my level best, and that 
whatever occurs you will remain mistress of Ewing 
Farm as it stands to-day.” 

Phebe rose. She held out both hands. “ Thank 
you,” she said. Her trembling lips, her eloquent eyes, 
and an expression of the honesty and candor of his 
old Quaker friend, Jacob Ewing, left a tender spot 
in Fabian Kelso’s heart which colored his conduct for 
a few days. 

The first thing her eyes rested on as she stepped 
from the train was a huge hand-bill posted on a 
wooden fence running along the track from the sta- 
tion. There was the odious advertisement. Her 
blood tingled in every vein as she walked dowm the 
platform to where Michael was waiting for her. Her 
sparkling eyes and heightened color were the only 
outward signs of inward discomfort. Her step was 


222 


PEEBB. 


as deliberate and her orders as composed as if, of her 
own free-will, she had framed and published tlie no- 
tice of sale herself. 

Michael’s manner was that of a person in the pres- 
ence of unspeakable disgrace and misfortune. Phebe’s 
humor was aroused, and she found herself actually 
smiling at the severely solemn manner with which 
the Irishman admonished the horses, as well as at his 
stooping posture as he drove her home. 

Petrovsky was at the front of the house when she 
arrived. He tipped his hat deferentially; glancing 
at him, she realized the salutation was hardly that of 
a servant, whether from intention or inability she 
could not tell. He was too foreign to comprehend or 
possess the self-respecting and respectful independ- 
ence of the American farmer, and she suddenly won- 
dered how she had permitted herself to tolerate so 
long a person wdio was not as clear to comprehend 
as persons and things about Ewing Farm usually had 
been. She decided then and there to go over to 
Barclay Hoads the very next day to see whether old 
Simeon Beetles could take the farm when Petrovsky’s 
month expired. Simeon was aged and feeble, but 
he could help her tide matters over till the crops were 
in. At all events she would manage in some way. 

The Hussian was baffled when he saw his mistress. 
Always suspicions of others, always interpreting 
every look and movement from the stand-point of 
his own sinister nature, he approximated, this time, 


THE CURATE SETTLES HIS FATE. 223 

to something akin to the truth. Miss Ewing must 
have seen the notice ; it evidently had not disconcerted 
lier. She must, then have a reserve power of which 
Mills and he were ignorant. 

He walked slowly to the stables, his head bent, 
his quick mind trying to devise some scheme by 
which this woman could be brought to an amicable 
recognition of his power. Only his consuming desire 
to make Phebe his wife, and his material conception 
that the best and quickest way to win her was to 
gain possession of a portion of the farm she loved as 
if it were a human thing, kept him busy with these 
small contrivances and detained him, now that his 
inheritance was secured, in such humdrum surround- 
ings. 

He went up to his room. One of the windows 
faced the Sound north-east. He looked off in the di- 
rection of the open sea. A mist blurred the perspec- 
tive. An east wind blew, rolling the fog in thicken- 
ing sheets upon the land. It would be an ugly, 
dark, cold night. His thoughts took on the com- 
plexion of the weather. What if his plans failed? 
What if this neutral, monotonous waiting proved to 
be in vain ? So perfect was the poise of Miss Ewing’s 
character, so high and pure her unconsciousness of 
evil, so calm her whole nature, that she was unlike 
any woman of high or low degree he had come in 
contact with. He felt unequal to what he had at 
first planned as the steady, imperceptible growth of 


224 


riTEBE. 


an influence over her which would make the foun- 
dation of her recognition of him as General Pe- 
trovsky’s son when the proper hour came. So far 
as he could perceive, he was neither more nor less 
than Job or Michael. What would he better do? 
declare himself before the sale, delicately giving her 
to understand that he had seen the foreclosure notice 
and that he stood ready to buy the woodland or to 
hold the mortgage ? The latter might be still better. 
But no, that would force him to incur Mills’s ill- 
will. Better own the land — Miss Ewing would fear 
him as the owner. Pear was half a woman’s love. 
The streaks of yellow in his eyes enlarged. lie thrust 
his hands through his thick hair till it stood up- 
right, a shaggy mass. He got up and paced the 
floor with the stealthy restlessness of a tiger. What 
if ever}^ effort did fail? He would — kill her. He 
went out and took a walk in the woods. He slowly 
paced the entire length of the path terminating 
near the entrance to the Locust lane. As he came to 
the shadow of the last trees he saw the curate en- 
ter the lane. He would have liked to throttle that 
unsuspicious man, whose peaceful thoughts, intent al- 
ternately on a chime of bells for the church and 
Phebe, gave little heed to the gloomy strip of forest, 
to the penetrating dampness, or the funereal bellow- 
ing of the fog-horns. 

Petrovsky came suddenly to a decision. He would 
dress himself with the greatest care as a Bussian 


THE CURATE SETTLES HIS FATE. 225 

gentleman; lie would wait among the pines till Mr. 
Woods’s customaiy and punctilious hour for leaving; 
then he, too, would call on the mistress of Ewing 
Farm. 

Miss Ewing was in an unusually tense state of 
mind. The even tenor of her life had not only been 
temporarily, but had come near being permanently, 
disturbed. She had also that pleasant feeling which 
comes to all when serious difficulties promise to be 
liappily surmounted ; like men and women of her 
type, she was, accordingly, correspondingly generous 
in her mental attitude toward every body. Such 
people often, though unintentionally, lead others to 
commit grave blunders. Their greeting is so warm, 
their eyes glow with such super-friendliness, they are 
so sympathetic, and this wholly in an impersonal way, 
so far as they themselves are concerned, that those 
who come in contact with them at such moments 
argue a special cordiality of sentiment. 

When the curate entered she was ingenuously and 
emphatically glad to see him. She noticed, incident- 
ally, and this pleased her, that he was less the curate 
than usual. He had the merit, also, immensely be- 
coming to a man, of not being afraid of the purpose 
of his visit, for he intended to place his fate, this 
night, in her hands. 

She was simply and heartily glad to find him, for 
once, without reservations of feeling or sentiment, 

and, off her guard, she took it comfortably for granted 
15 


226 


PIIEBE. 


that he had finished weighing her in his connubial 
balance, and, having found her wanting, would now 
settle down into a satisfactory friendship. 

The dampness and consequent chilliness were amj^lo 
excuse for a fine blaze in the fire-place. The hickory 
logs glowed with a steady flame, yellow and sinuous 
and clear as the light on a Parsee altar. 

The curate sat in an easy-chair on one side of the 
fire, and Phebe in a cavernous high-backed arm- 
chair lined with the blackest horse-hair, but forming 
a very becoming setting to her fine face with its 
wealth of fluffy, reddish hair. 

How episodical the strawberries seemed to the now 
ardent suitor ! How charming her idiosyncrasy about 
farming! Why, this woman could do any thing — 
one of the rare exceptions, indeed ; and he magnan- 
imously decided she should do whatever she chose. 
Such things were but woman’s whims, and the most fas- 
cinating of the sex were always the most contradictory. 
How thorough a part of the antique room she was, 
and yet sufficiently modern ! 

Serene and unusually lovely in the delightful at- 
mosphere of camaraderie^ she exerted herself to con- 
verse with delighted minuteness on Mr. Woods’s 
favorite topics ; it is true they had obviously worn 
these subjects threadbare. How patent it is that 
we each have the artlessness of children in hearing 
themes we love viewed over and over from all the old 
stand-points! 


THE CURATE SETTEES UIS FATE, 227 

The curate wondered that he had ever questioned lier 
capacity for sympathy. She simply possessed every 
womanly trait ; she was “ a perfect woman, nobly 
planned, to soothe, to comfort, to command.” 

Suddenly, by one of those electric signals commu- 
nicated without wires, overleaping all obstacles, 
though miles of space intervene, she knew that she 
had made a mistake, and tliat she had to hear what 
she would willingly have avoided. Her eyes, suddenly 
dilating, shone like stars. There was a resistant qual- 
ity in her attitude. She had the manner of a bird 
hearing a sound that might prove hostile, and ready 
to take wing. And the curate, reading each sign in 
his favor, sailed in high spirits to the shipwreck of his 
hopes. 

Nicholas Petrovsky still walked back and forth 
under the pines long after Mr. Woods had left. At ten 
o’clock he went to the parlor window and looked in 
through the half -closed shutter. Miss Ewing was 
there, alone. She had sat down on a stool beside the 
chimney. Her head was resting against the jamb ; 
her clear eyes, lost in thought, were fixed on the 
ceiling. 

There was little vanity in her nature. She felt 
sorry and humiliated and honored. She recognized 
the strong points in Mr. Woods’s character, knew that 
in process of time liis ultra mediae valism would fade 
into broadness, knew that his high conscientiousness 
about trifles argued well for integrity in larger mat- 


228 ' PIIEBE. 

ters. She felt for her rejected lover the greatest 
prospective respect. No true love, however, in a 
woman, is built on what she thinks a man may be, 
but on what she thinks he is. She was humbled in 
her own estimation tliat she had not been able to 
prevent an absolute declaration. There are many 
women who permit proposals on the basis that they 
will only be misjudged by their suitors if they do 
otherwise. Phebe bad one of those noble, sincere 
natures that would far rather suffer from misconcep- 
tion than let another suffer. She could not easily 
forget the strained, repressed gaze in the curate’s 
honest eyes as he bade her good-night. Where had 
her penetration been ? All at once the Sunday ser- 
mon filled her mind. She was taking the walk 
across the fields again. She was looking into a coun- 
tenance that possessed her belief and admiration. A 
gentle, wistful light stole over her face. She smiled, 
and with a sigh that blended pity for Mr. Woods 
and a desire to see Bishop Martineau she rose. 

^ Nicholas Petrovsky walked around to the front 
door and sounded the antique brass knocker. The 
vigilance of Sophia was not at fault, as he had hoped 
it would be, for in a second, as it seemed to him, 
the door flew open, and instead of the gentle, stately 
woman in a white dress, and with an astonished, 
inquiring look, as he had pictured her, he was con- 
fronted by a belligerent florid countenance. 

Sophia filled the entire space as she held the door 


THE OUR ATE SETTLES IIIS FATE. 229 

ajar. Her cheek-bones shone like polished coral. 
Her small eyes emitted flashes of defensive energy. 
She surveyed the lofty bearing and fine dress of Pe- 
trovsky with a cool effrontery that would have been 
subduing to most mortals. After a half minute of 
mutual staring she inquired, 

“ What do you want, Petrovsky?” 

I wish to see Miss Ewing.” 

“ You can’t see her.” 

I can’t see her ! ” in great and haughty astonish- 
ment. 

“Ho, you can’t! She’s just going to bed. It is 
time you were in the carriage- house for the night. 
Been off to Killian Hook a-courtin’, 1 expect. She 
reviewed his faultless attire again. “ Morning’s the 
time to bother Miss Ewing about the farm. I never 
did see a farmer before as bed such a faculty for in- 
venting excuses to ask questions.” 

He stepped forward. His yellow eyes sparkled. 
He meant to push past her. But she read his inten- 
tion. Shutting the door suddenly and violently, he 
heard her bolt it the next instant. 

He felt the insane fury of a wild beast. He could 
have sprung through one of the windows before she 
could put them all down, but to do so would be ruin 
to his plans. He swallowed his wrath and walked 
away to the stables, realizing now, for tlie first time 
in his life, that a man cannot change at will conditions 
Ills conduct has been preparing for years. 


7 


230 PIIEBE. 

Miss Ewing occasionally sat up very late. This 
'Should have been his opportunity, even if he had 
asked leave through the window to speak with her. 
He would have been so deferential, so solicitous for 
her rights, that her gratitude would have allayed sus- 
picion. There was no time to lose. See her he must, 
the first moment he discovered that her dragon ess 
was not around. 

lie had a lurking fancy that Sophia had not so en- 
tirely misread his metamorphosis as she had pretended 
to do. If this were so, the sooner he threw off. all 
disguise the better. 

It was with less complacency than usual that he 
crept stealthily up the inclosed staircase of the car- 
riage-house, carefully locking the door behind him, 
and passed Job’s room to liis own. 

He sat down again by the window. It was indeed 
a dark, still night. He could not even distinguish 
the water near by. He could hear the muffled sound 
of oars a little way from the shore. “ What fool can 
be out in this pitchy weather,” he muttered. Closing 
the window, with that fancy for an air-tight sleeping- 
place peculiar to Europeans, he soon followed Job’s 
example, who had long been snoring with regularity 
and stentorian force. 


A CLIMAX. 


231 


CHAPTER VI. 

A CLIMAX. 

When John Ewing accidentally heard from a trav- 
eler the news of his parents’ death he was in Rome. 
His feelings were indescribable. 

He was journeying back to America in leisurely 
fashion, making detours to various points of interest, 
picking up curiosities, jewels, and pictures for Phebe, 
and, joyously content with the success that had at- 
tended his protracted absence, he was willing to defer 
his arrival a little later with the glad consciousness 
that a welcome awaited him from an unbroken band, 
and that a few weeks made no difference, one way or 
another. 

To his practical nature Phebe’s strange way of 
showing her love and disinterestedness was simply 
quixotic. But he knew the generous promptings 
of her temperament sufficiently to realize the full 
extent of the great sacrifice she had made in trying 
to leave liiin untrammeled and to bear sorrow and 
loneliness without his sympathy. 

For a few hours grief had the mastery over him. 
He left the hotel with that desperation of home- 
sickness which attacks the wanderer in a foreign land 
when tidings of bereavement overtake him. He 


232 


PHEBE. 


linrdlj knew where lie went. lie found himself, all 
at once, at the ancient gate leading to the Appian 
Way. lie passed throught it. The still clearness of 
an Italian evening was settling over the landscape. 
The road, with its somber gray walls lining either 
side, with groups of peasants of all ages walking in 
squads to the city to sleep overnight on the steps of 
porches and churches, to be ready betimes for work 
in the morning ; distant ruins rising suggestively 
above the monotony of the walls ; the church mark- 
ing the site where St. Peter turned to retrace his 
steps to martyrdom after a vision of the Saviour ; a 
newly discovered columbarium which he had visited 
the day before, and where he had been deeply im- 
pressed with the vestiges of humanity tha thad lived, 
suffered, and died so many centuries ago — all this he 
hardly noticed. 

He came out at length where the view of the vast 
Campagna was unimpeded. The Alban hills made a 
clear, rose-touched line against the sky. Soracte 
reared his stately head in storied dignity. The 
undulations of the waste, once teeming with life 
and beauty, now restored to desolation and disease, 
stretched before him with none of the beauty of the 
American prairie or the breezy movement of the sea. 
He was in the midst of a scene of awful loneliness 
and decay. But above him was the solemn, deepen- 
ing beauty of the transparent sky. One by one the 
speaking stars came out ; their mysterious, mellow 


A CLIMAX. 


233 


light lifted his thoughts on high. With the simplic- 
ity of a child, but the voiceless grief of a manly heart 
schooled to repression, he sought despairingly’ in their 
shining ranks for some token of those who had be- 
come Avholly spiritual. How secret were the depths 
of that blue abyss ! How the stars clustered like silent 
angels with their fingers on their lips ! How the sepa- 
ration and the mystery grew and grew until the 
weight of his loss overwhelmed him and he turned 
back to the venerable city with a smothered “ O, God ! 
O, God ! ” 

But once within the circle of its life and liglit — and 
no city seems to be more humanly alive, at night, 
than Home — his thoughts turned suddenly with fright- 
ened solicitude to Phebe. The living claimed his 
care and sympathy. 

Only those who are stripped of every treasure of 
love know unmitigated grief. If he suffered, what 
had not that sister suffered in the first agony of 
her loss? Wliat might not have happened to her? 
What perplexities might not encompass her? She 
was so trusting, so unsuspicious of evil, wdiat ca- 
lamity might not have overtaken her? Doubtless by 
this time she had been accustomed to the effort to 
meet life alone; he would go back and unaccustom 
her to it, then. Why had he cared so much for fort- 
une ? Of what use was it to him now? Yes, it 
was a great deal of use ; it should encompass Phebe 
with tenfold comfort and plenty to reward her long 


234 


rilEBE. 


and silent waiting. He would not send Ler word. 
He would give her no further opportunity for re- 
pression. He would surprise her in the midst of her 
daily life, and find out for himself with what and 
whom she was surrounded. He cared little, com- 
paratively, if slie had in any way suffered from tem- 
povary privation ; he was more afraid of people than 
circumstances. And surely he had sent enough 
money home each month for Phebe not to feel 
restricted. 

Anxiety, when once aroused, is unreasonable. He 
read nothing but disaster and suffering in the past 
three years for his sister. He was a sanguine man, 
naturally ; fearless, pugnacious, keen to look after his 
rights, honorable to a fault, generous to misfortune, 
chivalrous to all women. How these traits came to 
the foreground, many of 'them, to express themselves 
in their directly opposite normal manifestation. 

Phebe was sick, doubtless bankrupt. He deserved 
to find her a perfect physical wu’eck for allowing 
himself to believe her evasive letters. He felt dis- 
graced, penurious, neglectful of those whose claims 
were strongest upon him. He would be ashamed to 
face any decent American he might come in contact 
with. 

All this time he was striding through the devious 
streets, only intent now to reach his hotel, pack his 
traps, and take the first train north. A small open 
carriage crossed his path. He hailed it, sprang in. 


.4 CLIMAX. 


235 


and a half hour later was at the Hotel de Londres, 
and by midnight was far aw'ay from Rome. 

The same evening that Phebe returned from Hew 
T ork the City of New ITork came in. She reached 
her pier late. It was eight o’clock before John Ew- 
ing got througli the custom-house. Taking a cab, he 
drove rapidly to a hotel, ate a hearty dinner, and 
reached a Brooklyn feny just in time to catch the last 
express. 

Four years had produced changes in Hew York. 
Ordinarily he would have been a quick and interested 
observer of improvements pr retrogressions. But 
tliis night bis tlioughts were for Phebe alone. 

lie gnt a forward seat, where lie could think unob- 
served and unobserving. At ten o’clock, if they 
made the usual time, they ought to be nearing Killian 
Hook. At a quarter to ten he was aroused from his 
reveries by the short, sharp whistle of the locomo- 
tive ; then the brakes were put down ; the train 
trembled and jerked forward as the speed decreased \ 
they came to a sudden stop. He put his head out. 
They were on a trestle over an arm of the Sound. 
The white mist was driving in with chilly dampness. 
He could hardly see a yard before him. He beat 
an impatient tattoo with his foot, waited a few min- 
utes ; still the dead silence and immobility. Going 
through the train to make inquiries, he found that 
there ^vas an obstruction on the track a few rods 
further on which it would take two hours to remove. 


286 


PIIEBE. 


Ordinarily Jolin Ewing would have waited with 
philosophical fortitude. In two liours, however, by 
short cuts he had followed since a boy, he could reach 
home. If he waited for the train it might be three 
or more before he could clasp Phebe in his arms. 
It did not take him a minute to decide. Getting his 
satchel and cane, he passed through the train to the 
forward car, which stood on the solid ground, and, 
stepping off, plunged into the mist, following the 
track a little way, and then striking into a wood road 
which would shorten the distance three miles and 
bring him out again on the track. 

It was toward eleven o’clock when he reached the 
embankment on which Mills’s house stood. Ilis 
attention was attracted by the glow from a moving lan- 
tern near the house. Stopping with the instinct of 
a cautious man, he watched the light. He soon per- 
ceived that the lantern was a dark one, and whoever 
carried it was coming stealthily forward. That might 
be on account of the fog. lie lingered behind an 
angle of the road as the man descended to the track. 
A sudden flash revealed the real estate agent. John’s 
curiosity was aroused. There had been dark stories 
afloat, years before, about Mills’s complicity in certain 
frauds. Although he had never believed them he 
had never liked the man. They recurred to him 
now. 

Suddenly he drew up as if some venomous beast 
had bitten him. The only residence when he left 


A CLIMAX. 237 

liomo that came near the trach; for a distance of three 
miles was Ewing Farm. 

Phcbe ! 

Mills must be going to the farm. lie hurried for- 
ward, keeping as near as the fog and freedom from 
discovery w^ould permit, and thanking the lantern, 
which every now and then emitted a flash like some 
dying meteor. # 

The real-estate man left the track near the belt of 
woodland. John was now sure that the farm was 
his destination. 

Mills struck into the woods along the familiar path. 
John, not far behind, and finding that the mossy 
ground, spongy and damp, made no sound, advanced 
more rapidly. The path, as has been said, ended near 
the stables. When Mills reached the edge of the 
woods he opened his lantern, took a brief but sweep- 
ing survey of his surroundings, and, to John’s sur- 
prise, went to the carriage-house, where he cautiously 
tried the doors and windows. Evidently every thing 
was securely locked and bolted. 

As long as the house was not in question John felt 
interested in waiting to watch proceedings. He 
glanced toward the old home. The fog had lifted 
sufficiently for him to discern its outlines. There 
was no light anywhere. Every body was buried in 
peaceful slumber. Plow little that darling sister 
knew of his nearness or of impending danger ! 

Mills went off, presently returning with a short, 


238 


PUEBE. 


lieavy ladder usually hooked against the sides of the 
barn. He carried it with some difficulty to a gable 
of the carriage-house and adjusted it to one of the 
windows. Hanging the lantern around his neck, he 
began to ascend. 

John was completely mystified. What could there 
be up there to tempt the man’s cupidity. When he 
went to Australia the place had been nothing but a 
loft devoted to refuse. 

When the agent reached the window he listened a 
long time. John seized the opportunity to walk in 
the shadow of the trees till he could come out on an 
adjoining side of the carriage-house, where, if he 
could not see as well, he could hear better. Peep- 
ing around the corner, he beheld Mills enter the 
window. 

There was dead silence for fifteen minutes or more, 
when the agent backed out on -the ladder. Suddenly 
a terrific imprecation disturbed the perfect quiet. 
Two great, strong arms were thrust out of the win- 
dow ; Mr. Mills was seized bodily and hauled back 
into the room, and in the preliminary scuffle the lad- 
der moved from its position, falling to the ground. 

Horror-struck on finding that the attic was occu- 
pied, John rushed to one of the windows, broke it 
open, and climbing in ran to the staircase. It was 
locked. Fumbling around in the darkness till he 
found an ax, he knocked the door in and hurried up 
the stairs. Meanwhile, the moon, in its last quarter, 


A CLIMAX. 


239 


liad brolveii tliroiigli the fog. There was just light 
enough to rev^eal Joh tlirusting his matted liead out 
of a door, lie seized the hoj. “ Whaf s up ? ” 

There ! tliere ! ” The terrified youth pointed to 
the next room. That door was also locked. 

‘‘ What mischief has been going on here in my 
absence/’ he muttered, as this additional obstacle 
opposed him. 

There was no sound inside. 

“ Here, hoy,” addressing Job, “ strike a light and 
he quick about it, too.” 

Thus adjured, Joh tremblingly lit a candle, and 
then, at his master’s command, putting his shoulder 
to the light door, and John hurling all his great 
weight against it, they broke it in. 

Ewing seized the light and entered. Petrovsky’s 
long flat pocket-book, open, its contents scattered all 
about the room, told the story. Petrovsky himself 
la}^ senseless on the floor, the blood flowing from a 
wound near his shoulder. Mills’s back had been 
]')aral3^zed by the strong knee of the Pussian giant 
pressing into it in their hand-to-hand encounter, and 
lie was leaning in a corner a helpless, lifeless mass 
from his waist downward. 

Perceiving that the Pussian would die if he were 
not soon helped, John stooped down beside him, and 
after considerable difficulty succeeded in stanching 
the flow from what he discovered was a long and 
severe cut. There appeared little life left, but a 


240 


PHEBE. 


little meant much with such vitality as the muscular 
frame of the insensible man indicated. 

“Here, Job, help me carry Mills to your bed, and 
tlien do you take the fastest horse in the stable and 
ride for Dr. Perry. I’ll watch beside this other one. 
Who is he?” 

“ He’s the Poosian, sir. He’s the farmer.” 

Job gladly hurried off to obey orders, and John, 
putting a pillow under Petrovsky’s head, sat down to 
watch. An hour passed. Still no signs of conscious- 
ness. He stepped into the next room. Mills was 
delirious. He gathered enough from the agent’s dis- 
jr)inted talk to learn that Petrovsky had much 
property. 

The day was faintly dawning when Job returned 
with the doctor. Sophia was awakened by the wheels 
of Dr. Perry’s buggy. She sprang from bed and 
looked out of the window. The buggy had already 
turned toward the carriage-house, but Job, coming 
slowly behind on Soho, the roan mare, revealed such 
a woe-begone, pallid face, as he glanced up at her 
cry of “ What’s the matter ? ” that, without waiting 
to hear more than the barest particulars, she hastened 
to dress, and did so with such celerity that she was 
on the scene almost as soon as the others. 

Her master heard the familiar, determined limp 
on the stairs with a feeling of inexpressible relief, for 
he knew that if Sophia were still at the farm matters 
could not be wholly bad. He stepped to the door to 


A .CLIJIA.Y. 


241 


meet her, and when she beheld his height and breadth 
almost filling the narrow space she dropped on her 
knees and exclaimed : 

“ Thank the Lord ! The Lord’s name be praised ! 
Job never told me that you were out here.” 

“ Thank the Lord, Sophia, that you are still here. 
However, I have found things in a pretty mess. 
Who is this Petrovsky ? ” he added, coming outside 
and leading her to the end of the short hall. ‘‘Yon- 
der boy is too frightened to talk to. Eow" is it that 
Mills knew about this farmer’s affairs. There came 
near being a murder in the dead of night. Mills is a 
villain.” 

“ They are both villains, sir. But I am that dum- 
* founded, Master John, that I can’t answer no ques- 
tions till you tell me how you got here. Miss Phebe 
will be that surprised ! ” 

“ Is she well ? ” His fine face grew solicitous and 
tender. 

“ Perfectljq Master John.” A loving, proud look 
stealing over her florid countenance, she added, “ And 
she’s handsomer than ever. You’re a pair. Master 
John, that’s what you are ! Where did you come 
from?’^ 

“ I have been traveling day and night for two 
weeks to reach home as speedily as possible, Sophia — 
ever since I heard, by the merest accident, of father’s 
and mother’s death. It was a great blow, coming to 

me so suddenly, among strangers.” 

16 


242 


PHEBE. 


He drew himself up. There was a quiver of pain 
through the muscles of his face, a misty look in his 
black eyes as he gazed out on the Sound, beautiful 
and sparkling in the clear morning light. 

“ I have begged and begged Miss Phebe to write 
you all about it, and especially of late, sir. She’d rather 
die than be the means of putting a stumbling-block in 
your wa}". She meant it right. Her and the farm’s 
been like a hive of honey to a lot of bears. He’s one 
of them ! ” Her pudgy red finger pointed with horror 
to Petrovsky’s room. 

She bent forward, and, looking up in Mr.' Ew- 
ing’s face, her own trembling with excitement, she 
whispered, 

‘‘ He’s a Poosian ! ” 

John smiled. 

‘^He’s a gentleman! Pve known it for this long 
time — seen through him before I had proofs. What’s 
a gentleman got to do working as he’s worked and 
palavering around Miss Phebe? What’s it for?” 
and she nodded emphatically. 

John braced himself. He folded his arms across 
his chest. A straight line appeared in either cheek. 
A tense look settled in eyes and mouth. 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

I mean he’s in love with my dear mistress. She 
don’t see it. Trouble’ll come, trouble’ll come, ef he 
stays. He’ll kill her.” 

John Ewing drew a tremendous sigh of relief. He 


A CLIMAX. 


243 


was used long ago to the idea of Pliebe and lovers. 
This one was not to his taste — but then, ‘‘ a cat may 
look at a king.” 

If getting rid of him is all that is necessary, that will 
be done to-day. Dr. Perry will attend to his removal 
as soon as his strength returns a little. He is con- 
scious now. How do you suppose Mills found out 
about his money ? ” 

“ What isn’t there that that Mills doesn’t know. 
Petrovsky might have been scheming to buy a piece 
of the farm.” 

“ Buy a piece of the farm ! Sophia, what do you 
mean now ? ” 

‘‘When you came through Killian Hook, didn’t you 
see the posters, tall as you are, here, there, and every- 
where, advertising a forced sale of Ewing Farm.?” 
She put her apron to her face and began to sob. 
“ You wont let them sell the old farm, Master John — 
say you wont.” She seized his hand in both of hers. 

“Hot if my name is John Ewing. I have come 
back to make the faraa the bonniest place for miles 
around. I’ll do it, too. So cheer up, Sophia.” 

“ Didn’t you see them disgraceful posters, sir ! ” 

“ Ho. I walked six miles through the fog to get 
home an hour earlier last night. The train was ob- 
structed. I came upon the scene in the nick of time, 
it appears. I have been here several hours. And now 
about breakfast, Sophia. I’m hungry ! hungry as a 
‘ Koosian ’ bear. Y on used to be able to get me a good 


244 


rilEBE. 


square meal. While I am trying to bring matters here 
to a conclusion, suppose you go back to the house 
and see what you can manufacture in the way of an 
American breakfast. I’ll be over in a half hour or 
so, in time to give Miss Ewing a surprise.’’ 

When Phebe awoke on this eventful morning — a 
morning as cool and fresh as late September — she 
looked out of her window delightedly. The mist of 
the evening had taken wings. The sparkling water 
broke in crystalline clearness upon the pebbly beach 
below. An invigorating breeze was tossing the tops 
of the elms on the knoll. The lawn was dewy and 
velvety. Every thing wore a smile. In her happiest 
mood, through a combination of decisions which re- 
moved a weight from her mind, she dressed with 
more care than usual, and in readiness for a full and 
active day. 

She was a woman to awaken both reverence and 
love. Ho one knew this better than her brother, and 
he often wondered, in those serious, earnest moments 
when her future was his chief solicitude, whether she 
would be as wise as was requisite for her happiness in 
the selection of a husband. Like all other men, John 
regarded no woman’s destiny as complete if she re- 
mained un wedded ; and, though Phebe had let the 
years pass, and the suitors recede one after another 
into the formalities of mere acquaintanceship, still he 
was a fine believer that his sister was not to be rele- 
gated to the sphere of spinsterhood. 


A CLIMAX. 


245 


lie had taken his accustomed chair by the sitting- 
room window, so that he should face the door as Phebe 
opened it. He was comforted in tracing her presence 
and touch every-wliere. The tears came as he saw 
liow lovingly she had preserved every thing that 
would suggest those now absent whose presence 
had made the old home so beloved and so sacred. 
Ho one that Phebe had ever deeply loved could be 
forgotten. Ho memorial tliat would worthily perpet- 
uate the memory of her dear ones would be set aside. 
Hence this living-room of three generations was full 
of tokens speaking eloquently to the two who were 
left to guard the family liearth. 

While he sat thinking of the happy past, and school- 
ing himself to a composure he was far from feeling, 
the door opened, Phebe stepped in with the energy 
and repose that characterized her movements, and, 
with wide open eyes and parted lips, paused. 

“ John ! ’’ 

She sprang to him with arms outspread, like a bird 
to its nest, and brother and sister were reunited, never 
again to be so far separated that they could not be 
constant sharers of each others joys and sorrows. 


246 


PIIEDE. 


CHAPTER VIL 

THE «NOTUS.*» 

It was nearly a month after the events related in 
the last chapter. 

Mr. Swape’s yacht, Notus^ lay in Newport Bay 
ready to sail toward Killian Hook on the first fair day. 
It was not as large as some of the roomy sea-homes in 
neighborly anchorage. It was like its owner, a serv- 
iceable craft, capable of standing all weathers. It was 
beautiful, too. Its jet-black hull, relieved by bands 
of gold, led up to a deck of polished oak covered with 
awnings and fitted with luxurious easy-chairs, tables, 
and Turkish rugs. The cabin, a model of space util- 
ized to the utmost, was large enough' for the long 
table and intervening passage-way between it and the 
divans running along the sides. Under the divans 
were lockers of all sorts and descriptions, and when 
the handsomely paneled rosewood doors were dropped 
or lifted a sumptuous array of linen for beds and table 
appeared. There were also mysterious dish-closets hid- 
den under the divans, good space allowed for ladies’ 
wardrobes, and in one corner or curve of the saloon a 
curious closet for hanging garments was built. The 
divans were very broad and upholstered in blue plush. 
The pillows and cushions of the same material were 


THE ^^NOTUS: 


247 


protected l)y the daintiest lace and linen slips. The 
windows had been freshly hung for this trip with silk 
and lace draperies. At the end of the cabin, and amid- 
ships, were two exquisitely appointed state-rooms with 
sleeping accommodations for four, and to these the 
ladies were assigned. The beds were covered with blue 
silk and lace coverlets ; the floor was softened with rugs 
of the same lovely color. The windows opened on the 
narrow part of the deck, and, as. the yacht sailed low 
though smoothly, these state-rooms were delightful 
places to sit, where the occupants, propped by cush- 
ions, could look out on the vast expanse of the ocean, 
read, or sink into those delicious naps whose sleeping 
is a dreamy waking filled with phantasies in which 
the real is softened to the atmosphere of lotus land 
through perfect physical comfort and repose. Beyond 
the state-rooms there was a dainty toilet-room with 
opportunity for a sea-bath in a tub of spotless white 
marble. Still farther aft were the diminutive kitchen 
and store-room, the portion of the yacht which was 
its owner’s unending delight. Four men sufficed to 
man the Notus — the captain, two sailors, and the 
cook. Every thing and every one were ready but the 
weather, and over this Mabel fretted a little, as 
Phebe’s last letter had been urgent for them to arrive 
as early in August as possible.' As Mr. Swape insisted 
on entertaining his guests for a day at ITarragansett 
Pier, and for another at New London, it was not until 
the Tth that the weather forecasts for the whole 


248 


PHEBE. 


country and a local prediction for favorable winds 
with cloudless skies permitted the Notus to lift anchor 
and be at her pier at nine A. M. 

Matthew Swape’s yachting suit gave him a more 
youtliful appearance. His white straw hat with its 
blue ribbon, perched on the back of his head, allowed 
his naturally florid complexion to quickly assume a 
more than native hue — a “shrimp pink,” Mabel called 
it. But he never appeared at better advantage than 
when aboard his own craft, dispensing its hospitalities. 

Beatrice might have passed for aflgure-head removed 
from its ordinary position, so statuesque, so uninter- 
ested, but withal so observant, was she. It was nothing 
to step on board the Notus^ and this she did with majes- 
tic and somewhat proprietary dignity, wdiich the keen 
eyes of its owner observed with an amused dropping 
of his lids. He had gotten so usgd to women who 
took him chiefly “ for better ” in anticipation that he 
knew all the signals of step, manner, and expression. 
He good-naturedly said to liimself, “ This one is not 
mistaken.” 

As for Mabel, she walked about the Notus in a de- 
lightfully breezy flutter of excitement. It was partly 
her trip. Her love for Phebe was so genuine, and 
her admiration for Ewing Farm so decided, that she 
entertained only the most confldent expectations for 
her part of the programme. She soon found that 
Mr. Swapc's preparations for their entertainment were 
equally satisfactory. 


TUB ^^NOTUS. 


249 


She had the rare faculty of always looking well and 
suitably dressed, aud this day she was like the yacht, 
taut and trim, and withal most comfortable. Her 
clear face, full of health and vitality, her free step and 
joyous, ringing voice made the yacht seem full of life. 
She was that really delightful thing, a lovable young 
girl not in love, delighting in her freedom and taking 
every man she met most unconcernedly as a matter of 
course. Beatrice often told her that she hadn’t a 
spark of sentiment, and Mabel would effervesce into an 
amused laugh and reply, Certainly not, of the soda- 
water sort.” Like Phebe, she believed she would soon 
know her fate if she ever met him, and she* was more 
than content to wait. 

Mrs. Montgomery, Beatrice’s aunt, fluttered on 
board with all sails set, so to speak. She did not like 
the water, the sun, or what is implied by “ roughing 
it,” in the most inflnitesimal degree. She therefore 
always ignored the conventional sea wardrobes, and 
this day she appeared in a black India silk, the sleeves 
immensely puffed on the shoulders, a small toque set 
on her faultlessly crimped and snowy hair, a lace veil 
carefully holding the crimps and apparently her nose, 
too, in place. She did not inspect the decks ; she did 
not linger to look over the tempting array of books, , 
papers, bonbons, and fruit the host had ordered placed 
on the outside tables. She walked straight to her al- 
lotted state-room, removed her wraps, freshly and freely 
powdered her face, ordered Juliette to take out her 


250 


PIIEBE. 


black breakfast-sack triinined with white lace, wbicli 
she presently put on, as well as a long new pair of tan- 
color Suede gloves to keep any too aggressive light 
from her hands and arms, took a pair of deep blue 
glasses from her satchel, as well as Black Beauiy in 
paper binding, then finally sauntered into the cabin 
and viewed its conveniences. 

Juliette stood in the background in obsequious, even 
deprecatory, silence. 

You iiiay bring that large Shaker rocker from the 
end of the deck down here ; ” and she pointed to a 
roomy chair with Turkey-red cushions, swaying back 
and forth in the wind. 

Juliette obeyed. 

Mrs. Montgomery turned the chair partially toward 
the rosewood wall made by the buffet and the state- 
room doors. She sat down, Juliette adjusting her 
skirts. Then she ordered an ottoman for her feet, 
then sent for the cook and asked him in languid tones 
to make her a cup of strong tea, and at length opened 
her book. 

Beatrice, looking in through the window at this per- 
formance, rolled her eyes at Mabel, saying, “ She is 
settled. "VYe shall not hear any more from auntie till 
the book is finished or dinner announced.” 

‘‘ What a useful commodity a chaperone is,” replied 
Mabel, and she laughed a little, put her arm in Bea- 
trice’s, and walked aft. “ There are only two styles of 
chaperones the girls will tolerate : those like Mrs. Mont- 


THE ^^NOTUS:' 


251 


gomeiy with no interest in any thing outside of their 
personal comfort, or young brides of eigliteen or there- 
abouts who are just leadej'S in all the mischief and 
nice times. Did you ever go out with Mrs. Horace 
Gale ? Ho ? You must, if you get a chance. It is 
an opportunity of a life-time. You will meet more 
men and hear more gossip in two hours — she is de- 
lightful. She is only seventeen — nearly eighteen now. 
She used to chaperone me often last winter. Mamma 
says I am so safe with Mrs. Gale.” 

Do you mean Birdie Heal ? ” 

“ Yes. She married Horace Gale last Hovember.” 

O ! ” said Beatrice, scornfully. “ She was the 
wildest, boldest girl — I don’t know her ; that is, I in- 
sist on not knowing her.” 

‘‘ Yes; but the Gales, yon seem to forget, changed 
every thing for Birdie. Why, papa is as tickled when 
I visit Birdie ! ” 

“ I suppose that is because of business relations,” 
said Beatrice, loftily. ‘‘ Thank fortune, papa has re- 
tired. I am at full liberty to select ! ” 

“ Of course, if Birdie were really injudicious, that 
would be another thing. What I mean to say is she is 
as good as no chaperone at all, and yet there is the 
distinction of having one. I like her.” 

They reached the gangway just in time to greet 
Harry Birdsall, who came on board in a tremendous 
hurry, somewhat as if the JV^otus were a man-of war 
ordered into immediate action, and he the admiral of 


252 


PUEBE. 


tlie fleet. He shook hands all around, bent Ids back 
each time as if there were a stiff spring in the region 
of the lumbar vertebrae, gazed impressively a brief in- 
stant at Beatrice out of liis black ejes, and then, 
straightening himself, rested his hands on the railing 
of the Notm and looked around. 

‘‘Jolly place this, Mr. Swape. You deserve our 
everlasting thanks. The event of my summer, really. 
I shall feed on it all next winter.” 

“ Glad I asked you, then. But thank her — thank 
Miss Olyphant. She suggested you when I was Ash- 
ing around in my mind for another party. And when 
I found that you were agreeable to Miss IS^orthrop 
too, why, the affair was settled.” 

Beatrice’s chin settled perceptibly. She gave Mr. 
Swape a discouraging, haughty stare. Mabel was de- 
lightfully amused. 

As for Harry, though his self-esteem was not likely 
to be fostered by his host, he really did not care so 
long as he was one of the party. His spring opened 
quickly ; he bowed twice to Beatrice and gave Mabel 
an approving look, and her costume also as he sur- 
veyed it with a rapid glance. Seeing no other lady 
around, he raised his eyebrows as he asked humorously, 
“ What ! no chaperone ? ” 

Mabel pointed to the cabin. Harry stepped for- 
ward and looked in. 

“ She is a capital one. I am sure we shall liave a 
thoroughly nice time.” 


I 


THE ^^NOTUS: 


258 


And now there was a little preparatory bustle on 
the yacht. The captain and mate were here and tliere 
in a minute. The blue-peter with “ISTotus” flaunting 
gayly in the wind fluttered proudly as it was drawn 
np. The steam commenced to sputter and hiss ; the 
hot, quick breathing of tlie engine began. They 
parted from the shore. There was a small crowd of 
loungers longingly and admiringly watching them off. 
Soon the black and gilt prow faced toward Conanicut 
Island. Newport lay behind. The forts retreated to 
the left. The great, staring, white poor-house loomed 
up on the right. The wind blew freshly in from the 
broad outlet seaward between Newport Island and 
Conanicut. The yacht hugged tlie shore a little while 
passing througli the bay. Cat-boats, row-boats, ferries, 
and yachts grew less numerous, and an hour later 
they were well on their way to Narragansett, where 
they expected to anchor till the next morning. 

The second night they sailed till two A. M. before 
anchoring. The day had been liot. There had been 
little breeze. The party as a party had temporarily 
talked themselves out. Mr. Swape’s face was in a 
state of peeling. His eyes wxre swollen and suffused. 
He sat in a Shaker chair rocking vigorously — he was 
as fond of rocking as a baby. The sailor hat with its 
jaunty ribbon had been discarded some time ago. A 
skull-cap had later shared the same fate. The gentle 
breeze had at length its chance for ministering, and it 
blew softly over his bald spot and lifted his sparse 


254 


PHEBE, 


blonde locks streaked with gray with a mother’s fond- 
ness. IIow fortunate it is for us all that wind and 
weather, water and sunlight, have no favorites ] He 
finally fell asleep. 

With a woman’s instinctive care, Mabel deftly 
tucked an afghan over him and succeeded in doing so 
without awaking him. She nodded triumphantly to 
Harry and Beatrice, who had watched the perform- 
ance. Then, picking up Blach Beauty^ the witchery 
of whose simply told and pathetic story she was be- 
ginning to feel, she drew a low chair close beside the 
railing to read and watch the water alternately in the 
waning light. 

The lovers found themselves at last alone. 

Mr. Swape up to this point had been ubiquitous. 
He was like a cricket. His cheerful chirp had re- 
sounded every- where. 

Mabel gave a furtive glance of amusement as she 
saw her companions, after a few turns in her neighbor- 
hood, disappear to the opposite side of the yacht. 
There was no jealousy in her nature, none of tliat 
foolish desire to monopolize attention often so char- 
acteristic of a pretty girl. She had the most precise 
idea of things and people she enjoyed. When she 
could not have these, she philosophically declined to 
take any thing less satisfactory. This she could gen- 
erally do cheerfully, as she had the faculty of patient 
waiting. The experiences of Black Beauty thoroughly 
engrossed her attention, while Harry and Beatrice, as 


THE ^^NOTUS: 


255 


soon as they were out of sight, were oblivious to all 
but themselves. 

Although the day had been hot it had not been 
humid. The sky was a glorious deep arch of fathom- 
less blue. The August stars shone with the brilliancy 
of November. The yacht plowed her way steadily 
through the dancing waves. It was an hour when 
the most timid and earthly spirit breathes in a hint of 
the immensity of the universe, the paltriness of passing 
events, and the transitoriness of mere human con- 
ditions. Beatrice’s soul was touched again with that 
mysterious awe of the unseen, and again she felt a 
shrinking from the excess of material surroundings 
which had absorbed her life. She despised herself as 
she stood there silently leaning on the railing of 
Matthew S wape’s yacht for her sordid calculations con- 
cerning his wealth, for her deliberate efforts to please 
him, not because she loved him, but because she wanted 
the eclat of his millions. Slie felt unworthy of the 
honest, manly affection of the lover by her side. This 
self-examination was reflected in her countenance, 
which in the obscure light of the early evening looked 
like some exquisite cameo of a Homan beauty en- 
•dowed with life and feeling. 

With a young man’s devotion to a beautiful woman, 
Harry gazed on the clear, healthy fairness of her calm 
face and considered it the mirror of amiability and re- 
pose. He exulted in the thought that this girl did love 
him if he could only bring her to admit the fact. 


256 


PHEBE. 


It seemed even to liiin, intent only on winning tlie 
day, a rather dastardly thing to woo Beatrice while 
she was Mr. Swape’s guest. He justified himself with 
the reflection that Mr. Swape was not in love and he 
\vas. If the owner of the yacht could not and did not 
marry Beatrice, it was simply for him a question of 
looking elsewhere and finding the usual complacency 
in property, whether in a wife or real estate, for any 
woman who was once his wife would, simply be- 
cause of that relationship, be the best woman in the 
universe. 

The stars came out faster and faster until the sky 
vras in a blaze of limpid splendor. 

Harry repeated aloud, greatly to Beatrice’s sur- 
prise, ‘ The heavens declare the glory of God ; and 
the firmament showeth his handiwork. Day unto 
day utteretli speech, and night unto night showeth 
knowledge.’ ” 

Siie looked up somewhat frightened. 

‘‘ I did not know you were religious.” 

I’m not, I am sorry to say — that is, if being a 
Christian is to be religious. I have a great deal of 
religious feeling, though, if appreciating a scene like 
this and inevitably reverently thinking of the Maker 
of it all means that. When I was a boy I was 
obliged to learn pages of the Bible by heart, and 
Bible language is always springing to my lips. Do 
you know that Cobden, when asked the secret of his 
eloquence, said, H attribute any power of that kind I 


THE ^'NOTUS. 


257 


may have to a constant study of the Bible and Mil- 
ton ? ’ ” 

“ I do not know a single line of the Bible,” said 
Beatrice, regretfully. “ I always have one lying on 
my table. Every body does, of course. But my 
Bible is as new and unused as the dozen hmcy book- 
lets that serve chiefly for decorative purposes and 
that keep it company. O, I have looked into it once 
in a great while, but I can’t get interested. I suppose 
I’m a heathen.” 

Harry laughed. 

“ There is a great deal of what was anciently called 
lieatlienism in civilization to-day. Dr. James, tlie 
president of my alma mater^ says that we Americans 
are living on the capital of goodness accumulated by 
our hard-working ancestors, and that if we don’t stop 
using our principal, or add to it with a little of our 
own, we shall become bankrupt in national great- 
ness.” 

And then Harry, finding that he had a rapt list- 
ener, and feeling secretly glad to resume a little of 
the earnestness of his life when away from Newport, 
gave Beatrice a graphic picture of the downfall of 
Athens and Home. He had excellent powers of de- 
scription, and as she listened to his account of the 
home-life of the Athenians and Bomans, was told of 
dower rights, of splendid dinners served with the ele- 
gance and extravagance of the present, of libraries 

and lavatories, of porches inlaid with tortoise-shell, 
17 


258 


PHEBE. 


of wardrobes and jewels costing, in individual cases, 
hundreds of thousands of dollars, of social distinctions, 
of the miseries of the slave, of splendid theaters, of 
statuary that has never been equaled, and then of 
the invasions of the barbarians into Italy, strong in 
body, not afraid of hardships, lovers of their wives 
and children, and, in contrast with their strength and 
pure home-life, of the enervation, rapacity, cruelty, 
and immorality of the pleasure-loving and degenerate , 
Romans, it is perhaps not saying too much to declare 
that he was in a fair way, by a skillful application of 
indirect methods in reasoning, to drive Beatrice from 
Mr. Swape and consequently toward himself. At all 
events, had she known more of Scripture she would 
doubtless have considered Athens and Rome as Sodom 
and Gomorrah with modern applications. 

A long, long silence followed. Harry broke it by 
saying, 

“ Mr. Swape begins to look old, doesn’t he ? ” 

I had not observed it. He moves about, I am 
sure, as if he were considerably my junior.” 

“O, he studies agility. But it is tremendously 
hard work for him, 1 know.” Harry emphasized 
his words. ‘‘ He is always making up for it by naps. 
And then he rises mornings at such an unearthly hour. 

He calls me at four o’clock to see the sun rise, and all 
that sort of thing. He’s lonesome, that’s all. Early 
rising I consider the surest of all signs of on-coming 
age.” 


THE ^^NOTUS: 


259 


“ How old do you think he is ? ” questioned Bea- 
trice, a trifle anxiously. 

Fifty odd ! ” with much nonchalance. 

‘‘ O, it is not possible ! I am sure he is not a day 
over forty ! ” 

‘‘Forty!” in great scorn. “ He’ll never see fifty 
again ! ” 

“ lie is excellent company, at all events; and so 
kind ! so generous 1 I esteem him very highly.” 

“ Of course. You couldn’t help doing that. Every 
body does. He’s a first-rate man, too. A little com- 
monplace, awfully tiresome, occasionally. But Mat- 
thew Swape hasn’t an enemy.” 

“ I don’t think you are very much of a friend,” 
said Beatrice, and she turned toward her lover de- 
fiantly. 

“ I have but one bone to pick with him, Bea- 
trice, and that is the way he hangs around pretty young 
women, trying ridiculously hard to fall in love with 
one after another. Why, I could mention a dozen 
charming girls that he has studied and discarded. 
He is too old to have a heart. That’s what’s the 
trouble. It is atrophied. He doesn’t know it, poor 
soul! Your aunt, Mrs. Montgomery, Avould be a 
very suitable person for him. I suppose, though, he 
hardly realizes your aunt is on the yacht. Only a 
jniddle-aged widow should marry an old bachelor of 
fifty. No girl would possibly be able to accommodate 
herself to his theories of married life. Swape is a 


260 


PHEBE. 


better specimen than usual of ricli, fussy old bache- 
lors. If girls were wise they would give them a wide 
berth.” • • 

‘‘ Dear me ! One might fancy our poor host was a 
perfect monster. I think you are mean. I wont 
listen to you so you needn’t say another w'ord.” 

I wont.” 

He suddenly possessed himself of Beatrice’s hand. 
She let him keep it. And then he pleaded his own 
cause, and, as usual, when there is a sj^ark of woman- 
hood added to a real, vital love, youth, good looks, 
and the eloquence of earnestness and ardor won an 
easy victory. 

When Matthew Swape awoke from an exceedingly 
placid and refreshing doze Beatrice was sublimely 
indifferent to his lands and his stocks, his horses and 
his yaclit, his houses and his millions, and was in rapt- 
ures over the prospect of spending at least a year 
with Harry in the western town where he wanted to 
stay long enough to prove his professional capacity. 

As soon as her eyes fell on the lovers Mabel knew 
that the charm of uncertainty had been bridged and 
that they were betrothed. 

But Mr. Swape, with the blindness of long assurance, 
realized nothing but that he had had a most deliglit- 
f ul nap, and that he would further solace liimself with 
a few turns on the deck with Beatrice before indulg- 
ing in the pleasure of a good cigar witli Harry, which 
would appropriately finish a highly agreeable day. 


A HIGH TEA. 


261 


CHAPTER YIII. 

A HIGH TEA. 

Ewing Farm liad once more, in Sophia’s estimation, 
resumed its original stability and dignity among the 
thrifty homes of Killian Hook. 

Mr. Mills had been removed to his own house, 
where he was destined to remain, a hopeless paralytic, 
till death released him. Nicholas Petrovsky had suf- 
ficiently recovered to betake himself whitlier Jane 
Bane had preceded him. The odious notices of the 
forced sale had been taken down. Ewing Farm was 
free from mortgage. The Notus was on her third 
day’s journey. John, having insisted that Phebe 
sliould not retract her invitation on his account, while 
secretly indulging many sad memories of the momen- 
tous change that had taken place in his absence, was 
here, there, and every-where, now directing Simon 
Beetles, who had accepted the offer of Petrovsky’s 
place, and again closeted with an architect, as he de- 
signed adding a wing to the old homestead in the 
spring. 

Phebe felt younger than she had in four long 
years. Her record of farming forced even her 
brother to say that he could not have managed 
better the rotation of crops, the mulching of the soil. 


262 


PHEBE. 


tlie care of the stock, and tlie scale of expenses and 
expenditures. Still, her teinporarj sympathy with 
Jane Bane, and Petrovsky’s long stay, were themes 
on which he invariably waxed eloquent. 

‘‘ Such tampering with imposture, Phebe, was un- 
worthy of you. If I had been here neither of those 
adventurers would have been harbored a day. I would 
have seen tlirougli them in a minute. I do not ad- 
mire such simplicity, even in you, Phebe ; ” and lie 
drew himself up, tried to look stern, and ended by 
putting his arm around her and adding, “ Fortunately, 
no harm resulted.” 

It was after this daily repeated reproof that slie 
once suddenly glanced at him with an amused smile 
and said, “ It never seems to occur to you, Jolin, dear, 
that I do not respect myself when I think of my 
blindness and toleration. But you know my temper- 
ament. It takes me so long to believe in the possi- 
bility of such things, and tlien so long in such cases to 
decide what to do. After I had made up my mind 
about Petrovsky, and before I could act, you came.” 

“ Yes ; I came, and it was well I did ! ” lie folded 
his arms; his black eyes flashed. “Wouldn’t you 
have been in a pretty mess if I hadn’t come ? ” 

“ O yes,” said Phebe, laughing merrily, “we would. 
As Sophia says, every day since your arrival, although 
she didn’t seem to think so before, ‘ I tell you what. 
Miss Phebe, there’s nothing like having a mon around, 
after all ! ’ ” 


.1 UIGII TEA. 


268 


“ There, there ! Ihii satisfied now.” 

“We botli need a good deal of sympathy, don’t we, 
John ? ” and she nestled her head against his shoulder 
and stroked his face. “You are the dearest, delight- 
fulest old bear in the world, and I have never, never 
seen but one man that I think I might admire more, 
lie isn’t a bit like you, either.” 

“ See liere, Phebe, is there any thing in the wind ? ” 

“Nothing.” 

“ Who’s coming around here, now, that you care 
any thing about?” 

“Mr. Bartholomew Woods has been an occasional 
caller.” Her brown eyes twinkled, her beautiful 
mouth curved till its bow ended in the dimples at 
either corner. 

“I’m not afraid of Mr. Woods.” 

“ Then, John, dear, wait and see.” 

The good fellowship between this brother and sis- 
ter was contagious ; it penetrated the entire house. 
Ewing Farm had been, apparently, the most attractive, 
home-like place before John came; but in some way 
his arrival was like the warmth of a friendly fire, like 
the good cheer surrounding a hospitable table. He 
had a presence as magnetic, a manner as commanding, 
as Phebe’s was lovely, and Sophia would have limped 
all day to the music of his orders and frowned on any 
one who could have*wished her labors lessened. 

And then there was the added freedom which the 
consciousness of a full purse brings. Through John’s 


264 


rilEDE. 


urging, Pliebe was having a couple of new dresses 
made, lest ‘‘those Newport people should take the 
shine out of her altogether.” She could not guess 
from his smile, his brightness, and his constant thought 
of her what a heart-ache he carried, and that while 
years had brought to her not forgetfulness or less con- 
sciousness of those gone before, yet a blessed healing 
which permitted her to enjoy this beautiful world, loss 
and memory kept him constant company. She knew 
it must be so, and yet perhaps a man could rise above 
trouble more easily than a woman. So, while she 
half suspected that he sometimes played a part, she 
linished her preparations for her guests, not forget- 
ting, meanwhile, to make his return so full of the 
sweetness and gladness of care and love and sympa- 
thy that he said over and over to her, without the 
shadow of a reservation, “ Shall I ever find a wife 
who will be as lovely as you, Phebe ? ” 

“ Sometime,” she always answered ; “ only she will 
be ten thousand times lovelier. Put may I find a 
husband, John, before then! I should die of lone- 
someness; for when you are in love it will be a tre- 
mendously absorbing affair, obliterating the rest of 
the world from your thought.” 

“ I should like that. I’m skeptical, though. How- 
ever, I’ll try to live in anticipation of this happy 
state.” 

They were sitting on the knoll under the elms, 
after one of these bantering conversations. It was 


A IIIGU TEA. 


265 


late in the afternoon. The snnliglit banded the water 
witli silver streaks ; the air was clear and dry ; the 
autumn insects were already droning their sleepy mel- 
odies. 

John all at once sprang from the seat girdling the 
largest of the elms. Lifting a field-glass to his eyes, 
he gazed seaward. 

Phebe sat still, for of more interest to her just then 
than the expected Notus was this handsome, chival- 
rous brother. He looked, as he stood there, his form 
erect, his face so full of life and energy, as if he might 
be some viking temporarily off duty. Over six feet 
tall, proportioned like one of Hature’s athletes, his 
firm features instinct with goodness, strong practical 
sense, and sensibility, while not a man to- be trifled 
with, he was not one of those incipient boors of whom 
women are instinctively watchful. Phebe simply de- 
lighted in him. She wondered what Mabel would 
think of him now; for his stay abroad had improved 
him in countless ways ; and years ago, as a child, Ma- 
bel had rapturously declared that Cousin John was 
“ too splendid for any thing.” 

‘Ht is the NotuSj Phebe, judging by Mabel’s de- 
scription. Look ! ” 

She confirmed his surmise after a brief view, and 
as the yacht was sailing rapidly they walked down to 
their own pier to signal at the first opportunity. 

Very soon the black hull, with its gold bands, glis- 
tened in the sunlight. A jaunty flag, run up the 


2G6 


PIIEBE. 


foremast, sainted tlie host and liostess of Ewing 
Farm. Xow, bj means of tlie glass, tlie passengers 
were distinctly visible. John's black eyes expanded 
approvingly as he recognized a tall, slim girl in a 
white suit, with blue ribbons at her throat and on 
lier hat. 

“ I see Mabel. She has grown into a remarkably 
fine-looking young woman ; she may * cousin ’ me, if 
she still desires, to her heart’s content. I used to get 
awfully tired, though, of ‘Cousin John’ and ‘Cousin 
Pliebe ’ — ^fifty times in a minute. I suppose that plain, 
oldish-looking fellow is Swapo ; he is burned till he is 
as red as a lobster. Fine yacht ! !Now I have brought 
the other two within range. My, my! Phebe, they 
are FTewport epitomized. I don't believe the old 
house will hold them. Well, we will give them the 
farm if the house is too little. And who’s that? 
Bless my soul, Phebe ! Here’s a sight ! She doesn't 
seem to belong to the others, unless, perhaps, to Swape. 
She is a land-bird, and no mistake. I thought there 
were only four in the party.” 

“ O, John, now I see that y^ou have come from 
Australia. Why, she must bo the chaperone, Mrs. 
Montgomery.” 

“Has she the whole party in tow? I shouldn’t 
think Swape could stand it. Pve heard of him before, 
by the way. A really fine fellow, too, if he weren’t 
so daft after a young wife. Why, his inventory^ of 
what a wife should be — his wife — has traveled ’way to 


A HIGH TEA. 


267 


Austriilia. The world is a pretty small place these 
days, Phebe ; I have learned that much by my travels. 
A man had better mind his p’s and q’s if he is in the 
middle of Sahara, or a special correspondent will find 
him out if no one else does. By the way, do you not 
think the new wing had better be built entirely of 
glass, with ladders running over it in all directions, 
for the convenience of reporters when they g^ ready 
to write us up ? They will get hold of the Petrovsky- 
Mills affair, sooner or later, you will see.” 

If they do not find it ont very soon it will be too 
old a story. I think, however, we are going to escape 
them.” 

“ So that is Mrs. Montgomery. Humph ! ” John 
looked steadily through the glass. “What do you 
think of this chaperoning fad, Phebe ? ” 

“ O, it depends. I do not see that Mabel and Miss 
Olyphant could very well have come on Mr. Swape’s 
yacht without Mrs. Montgomery. I think in a large 
city it may be well to have very young girls accom- 
panied on the street with a little reservation of liberty 
and solitude for them somewhere. My chief objec- 
tion is that it sets a premium on flirting, et cetera, in 
men, and makes a girl feel that she has no moral 
responsibility about her behavior. It also makes a 
social distinction which only the very rich are able to 
support.” 

“ Of course, I believe, too, in a girl’s being reason- 
ably attended ; but this putting a dragoness at her 


268 


PIIEBE. 


lieels raornino^, noon, and niglit obliges her to think 
that men must be monsters and the whole world a pit 
of wickedness. I think that is pure nonsense ; it is 
an English fad, and will spoil our American girls as 
sure as you live. It will take away all that sparkling 
purity and independence combined which has differ- 
entiated them from the rest of womankind. I 
wouldn’t marry a girl that had been bechaperoned all 
her life, not if she were an angel ! ” 

‘‘You must talk to Mabel on the subject; Mabel 
prides herself on never being seen on the street unat- 
tended. ‘ It defines a girl’s position at once,’ she says. 
She is very fond of that sort of thing.” 

“I wonder what her grandfather, plain old Jere- 
miah IS’ott, would say, if he knew she held such no- 
tions. For my part, I never thought Mabel could be 
a fool, not even if she tried. She used to be so sen- 
sible, so sincere, so unaffected — a thoroughly nice 
girl.” 

“ She is all that now. Did you ever see a girl, or 
boy, either, without some pet ism ? Let Mabel have 
her way a few years with these various social fashions, 
and she will drop what isn’t worth keeping and keep 
what will do her good. She doesn’t “ cousin ” people 
nearly so much. She said to me one day that she 
began to think it a trifle jpasse. As for mo, now, I 
wish that word might be expunged from the English 
language.” 

“ I dare say Mabel and I shall get along as well as 


A HIGH TEA. 


269 


ever. Four years is a long time when a girl is grow- 
ing into a woman. She might be changed.” 

“ Only for the better. She is a sweet, bright girl, 
with far more character than opportunity for its de- 
velopment ; and I suspect she has been trying to live 
outside of herself a little, of late, judging from her 
letters.” 

‘‘ 1 am glad to hear it ; she had such an amiable self- 
ishness that it was hard to tackle. Selfishness is a 
terrible blemish. It is a wonder Swape didn’t fancy 
her.” 

‘‘ Or she him?” 

suppose that is hardly the question in such a 
case. I am not one of those fellows who think every 
girl has her purchase-price. I do not believe Mabel, 
anyway, is one of that sort ; but he is enormously 
rich. He is a mammoth millionaire ; and he is a 
temptation.” 

The yacht was now near enough for conversation 
to be altogether suspended. Hearer it came and 
nearer. There was a frantic waving of handkerchiefs, 
a series of shrill, unearthly whistles, some hoarse mas- 
culine hallooing through the captain’s trumpet, and 
finally the landing was made. The travelers trooped 
on shore. As they walked leisurely up to the old 
homestead over the velvety lawn John quickly ap- 
propriated Mabel, whose sunburn had touched just 
the right places and made her charming. The others 
dropped in behind, except Mr. Swape, whom Phebe, 


270 


PHEBE, 


as liostess, insisted on honoring as the convoy of her 
otlier guests. 

Harry and Beatrice brought up the rear, with Mrs. 
Montgomery following slowly after and at a discreet 
distance, as she knew the imperious nature of her 
niece only too well if she were other than ,an auto- 
matic ohaperone. 

When he caught Mr. Swape’s wondering look of 
admiration and approval, as Phebe, with her unfail- 
ing tact, entertained the cracker king, Harry whispered 
to Beatrice, “ I do believe that Swape is on the eve 
at last of really falling in love.” 

^ “ It would save me an immense amount of trouble if 

he only would,” said Beatrice, a trifle haughtily, for, 
notwithstanding Mabel’s eulogies, she had not been 
prepared for the great beauty and grace of Miss 
Ewing. She felt stumpy and insignificant and plain 
in comparison, and, while having no silly envy, there 
was a little chagrin that in a place with such an 
outlandish name as Killian Hook, suggestive of 
fishing and that sort of thing, she should meet a 
woman whose peer she had not seen in Newport all 
summer. 

“ I don’t believe she would have him,” said Harry, 
paying an unconscious tribute to Phebe’s superiority. 
“ She is — she is very unusual. S lie is the only woman 
I ever saw who made me think of a splendid, perfect 
rose in full bloom.” 


“Thank you.” 


A HIGH TEA. 


271 


“Now, now, Beatrice darling, *you are my white 
lily.” 

AVhen they reached the house there was a quick 
dispersing. John had refused to take the room next 
to Pliebe’s for the present, insisting on occupying 
the long-unused chamber opening off the sitting-room, 
for he had a secret fear lest Petrovsky might come 
back sometime. 

The man’s face was sinister and revengeful as he 
liad turned and looked at the house on his way to 
the lane wdien he was departing. John could not 
forget that look. So Mabel roomed next to Phebe, to 
the jmung girl’s great delight. 

Sophia was in her glory. Maria and Nanny did 
not dare open their mouths to speak without permis- 
sion. They stood on winged toes, waiting for anotlier 
order as fast as one was obeyed, and the Scotchwom- 
an’s commands were as frequent as snow-flakes. 

Preparations for tea — and it was to be a genuine 
“ high tea” — were sufticiently advanced’for the table 
to be set, when Nanny made the announcement that 
things would not look right, for there were only 
seven covers to lay. 

“ Put eight on,” ordered Sophia, promptly ; “ some- 
body’s always happening in for supper, now Mr. 
Ewing’s home. That’s like old times. I dropped a 
fork a minute ago ; that means a man. I only hope 
he’s somebody that’ll chime in with the rest.” 

“ Laws, Sophia, there he comes now ! Dropping a 


272 


PHEBE. 


fork’s a true sign.* Til take lieed to it after this;” 
and Maria gazed with admiring curiosity on the ap- 
proaching caller. 

Sopliia, who was at the sink, washing her liands, 
liastily dried them * and peered eagerly over Maria’s 
shoulder. 

“ Why, goodness gracious me ! It’s the bishop — 
Bishop Martineau — that preached the other Sunday, 
[le has ben here a dozen times a’ready ? O, Maria, 
[ wonder if he, too, is after Miss Phebe. He’d 
suit my idea of a husband for her. I’d give my con- 
sent to such a union. An’ don’t he look every inch 
a bishop? Hot an outside one, but as if his vary 
heart was appareled in righteousness. How, Hann^^ 
and Maria, if you care one iota for the credit of Ew- 
ing Farm you wont make any balks to-niglit. Re- 
member the hull waiting depends on ^mu. It wouldn’t 
do for me to go limping around before them Hew- 
porters ; but I’ll have my eye at the crack in tlie 
door, and if you get one thing crooked I’ll never for- 
give you — never ! ” 

She was gradually working the two maids into such 
panic that Maria finally declared that her heart was 
ready to spring out of her bod}" with fright, and she 
would spoil every thing if Sophia did not stop ‘‘ scarin’ 
folks so.” 

At last the supper was ready ; Hanny and Maria 
stood at either end of the table as the company 
came in. 


A HIGH TEA. 


273 


John liad the dreaded chaperone at liis right and 
Mr. Swape at his left. Phebe was sustained at either 
side by Bishop Martineau and Mabel, while Beatrice, 
next to the cracker king, but 'Vis-d-vis with Harry, had 
a fine opportunity of listening to her more mature 
suitor’s sallies and looking volumes at her lover. 
But Mr. Swape was blind to what every one else be- 
held, because of his complacency, and because Phebe’s 
star had already risen so far above his horizon that he 
had tlioughts for no one else. 

Nanny declared after the meal was over that 
it was the handsomest supper she had ever wit- 
nessed at Killian Hook. Did you see, Sophia, the 
way tlie bishop devoured your broiled chicken?” 

“That aint a proper word for a bishop’s eating, 
Nann3\ He is to do every tiling according to 1 Tim- 
othy iii, Y : ‘ Moreover lie must have a good report 
of them which are without.’ That’s me. Though I 
didn’t see him eat the fowl, his back being to me, I 
know by his very movements that he en joyed it ac- 
cording to verse second, which says that a bishop 
must be ‘ of good behavior.’ ” 

“ I didn’t mean to say nothin’ disrespectful. Of 
course he et proper. He’d be a poor bishop if he 
couldn’t do that much.’’ 

“ My advice to you, Nanny, is to never discuss 
your superiors one way or the other. Did they like 
the salad ? Did every one take some of it ? ” 

“ Yes, every single one. And they all declared 
18 


274 


PEEBE. 


over and over that they were that hungry, and that 
things never did taste so good before.” 

Sophia’s rubicund face expanded genially. “ That’s 
perhaps because tliey’ve just come off the water. 
We’ll wait and see how they like their breakfast.” 

Meanwhile Job had placed chairs on the lawn, and 
there the company continued the conversation that 
had been carried on with great animation at the table. 

John appeared at excellent advantage as he told 
stories of Australian life ; and once, in a graphic ac- 
count of a kangaroo hunt, when Mabel ejaculated, 
“ 0, Cousin John ! ” he stopped delightedly, his black 
eyes shone, and he said, “Let me hear that again, 
Mabel, it sounds so natural. Do let us return to our 
good old times.” 

Mr. Swape was giving Phebe a straightforward, 
literal, and detailed account of the ])leasurcs and mis- 
eries of yachting, and when, in a pause, she mentioned 
that she should judge on the whole that yachting 
must be delightful he replied, 

“Very well, you shall have a sail on the JS’otas. 
We will bring it about soon. You’ll see.” 

He nodded at her, his honest eyes shone, and Phebe, 
responding to the chivalry which was as real in spirit 
as John’s, thanked him, assuring him that she had 
long been so eager for such an opportunity. 

Mrs. Montgomery leaned back comfortably in a 
garden chair, and, though the air was pleasant, lan- 
guidly agitated a fan, previously to doing so, however. 


A HIGH TEA. 


275 


Laving drawn on a new pair of delicate gray gloves 
to protect her white hands from out-door air and 
light. 

Beatrice and Harry chattered incessantly on nothing, 
hut each discovered a weightiness beneath the trifles 
that kept them perfectly satisfled wdth each other. 

As for Bishop Martineau, he composedly waited till 
every body else had gravitated toward a chair ; then, 
picking up the one remaining, he placed it near 
Phebe. 

As J ohn took in the benignant presence and kindly 
air, and unqualified intention to pay open and rever- 
ent respect to his sister, his face grew serious, and 
though lie sustained a rattling talk with Mabel till 
the darkness and dampness drove them all in-doors 
he was studiously watchful of this new friend of 
Phebe’s, and more and more inclined to believe Bishop 
Martineau the man to whom his monopoly of a dar- 
ling sister must succumb. 

And thus the evening wore away with that inter- 
change of thought which never degenerated to argu- 
ment, and with the kindly effort on the part of each 
to be entertained wdiich is the soul of all true hospi- 
tality, whether of guest or host. 

After going into the house Mabel played a brilliant 
scherzo of Cliopin wdth fine effect, while John alter- 
nately enjoyed the picture on the mantel and its orig- 
inal. Mr. Swape clapped her rendering vehemently, 
and, urging her to entertain them still more, resumed 


270 


rUEBE. 


his conversation with Pliebe and the bishop as soon 
as she had begun a sonata. 

But by and by, when a long, pleasant silence en- 
sued, and John suspended an intruding yawn, Phebe 
rose, brought a Bible to Bishop Martineau, and asked 
him to cmduct prayers. 

Beatrice glanced at Harry in undisguised surprise, 
and John whispered to Mabel, “ The good old prim- 
itive ways, you observe, and I like them.” 

“ I do too,” she whispered back with warmth, and 
John, giving her another glance, surprised her into a 
blush, for his look was very tender. 

The bishop opened the Bible at the 91st Psalm. He 
read it slowly, impressively, and with such convicting 
trust in his voice that a spirit of deep reverence per- 
vaded the room. As he closed the holy 'book he said 
quietly, “Let us pray.” 

As John and Phebe listened to his solemn entreaty 
that peace might abide in* their home, that the Al- 
mighty would send his Spirit to be their constant 
guest, and that all their blessings of plenty, friends, 
and home might be sanctified to their eternal welfare 
and the benefit of others both for this world and the 
world to come, a sense of safety, a sense of the transi- 
toriness of this life, and the permanence of a homo 
not built with hands, eternal in the heavens, stole 
over them, and they rose with a sweet consciousness 
of an immanent Presence and that they who worship 
him must ever do so in spirit and in truth. 


A HIGH TEA. 


277 


Tlien good-niglits were said. Bishop Martineau 
left for a walk across the meadows on his way to 
Beechhurst, where he was stopping. By his side, in 
fancy, was his hostess, and they were coming from 
church, and it was a beautiful Sabbath morning. 

Twenty minutes after he had gone up-stairs Mr. 
Swape was wrapped in profound slumber. Beatrice 
w^as nodding in her room at the same time, while 
attended by Juliette. Harry Birdsall sat by his 
wdndow watching the moonlight on the Sound. John 
detained Mabel a few minutes in the parlor, and 
when she went up-stairs it was with an elated, happy 
face, and just why she felt so particularly ecstatic 
she could not have told if she had tried. A half hour 
later, faintly knocking at Phebe’s door, and receiving 
an immediate “ Come in,” she entered the large low' 
ceiled chamber to find Phebe at the window also. 


278 


niEBE. 


CHAPTER IX. 

CONFIDENCE. 

Mabel drew a low cliair beside Pliebe, and, sitting 
down, rested her bead on her friend’s shoulder. 
They were silent for some time, each busy witli her 
tlionglits while enjoying the superb beauty of the 
evening. The great golden dipper hung low in the 
north. The Sound was a sea of molten silver. Tlie 
air was musical with the chatter of fall insects, and 
throuirh the trees stole ever and anon the solemn 
whisper of a fitful breeze. 

Mabel’s hand presently crept into Phebe’s and 
received a soft pressure. 

“ I wish I lived here the whole year, Phebe. I feel 
like being good or trying to be good here. The life 
is so simple and beautiful. It leads one to thoughts 
of God. I can’t do much thinking in Newport. It 
is such a worldly place ; at least my life there is 
worldly. I have been trying to do something for 
others lately, all by mj^self, pretty ^nuch. I joined 
the King’s Daughters, but even the papers make fun 
of King’s Daughters in Newport. It is not right, of 
course, and yet there is a general fitness in things, and 
I suppose that such a mad race for pleasure as many 
lead there seems to the outside world incongruous 


CONFIDENCE. 279 

^vitli an earnest effort after a liiglier life. There are 
poor as well as rich, though, in my circle of ten in 
Newport. I know ever and ever so many people 
there, too, who are not frivolous. I couldn’t help 
thinking to-night, in the parlor, when Bishop Mar- 
tineau read and prayed, how strange such a scene 
would have appeared in our cottage. But here it 
seemed ap])ropriate and natural. It sealed the day so 
beautifully. I had such a safe, sweet feeling. Do 
you have evening prayers whenever ministers visit 
you ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

There was a long pause. 

Phebe,” whispered Mabel, “ I want to ask you 
something, and please do answer me very honestly. 
Do you love God ? Is he perfectly real to you ? ” 

“ Yes ” softly. 

“ How much do you love him ? ” 

“ Yery,.very much.” 

More than John ? ” 

“ Yes, more than John. More than any body, dear- 
est. I haven’t always ; but during these four years 
of living alone I have found him out. He is so real ^ 
to me now, and sometimes so near. I can’t explain 
it, Mabel, dear, but he is nearer than if I could lay 
my hand on him.” 

“ Phebe,” and Mabel still whispered, ‘‘ were you 
ever converted, or, as we say, confirmed ? ” 

No ; that is, if I were I do not know when it 


280 


PHEBE. 


happened. I think many Christians liave such an 
experience. There are straigiit roads and there are 
crooked roads, dear. If you travel over the straight 
road you cannot always tell how fast or how slowly 
you are going, while the sharp turns in the other 
make landmarks. I was taught about God from 
infancy, dearie, and he was always made to appear so 
loving and beautiful to me. I journeyed toward him 
on the straight road. I tliink I must have loved him 
always, only, as years increased and experience deep- 
ened, I naturally gave him more and more of my 
heart. 'Now he has it all.” 

“ I wish 1 could say that, Phebe.” 

‘‘ Perhaps ^mu may be able to wdien you are as old 
as I am. As one grows older the things of this 
world do not seem less real, but those of heaven more 
so. I have heard a great deal of the ‘ Order of the 
King’s Daughters ’ you mentioned a minute ago. I 
think its mission is beautiful. Perliaps, dailing, if 
you had never begun to work for Christ under the 
impulse of that broad, charitable, Christ-like society 
you might not now be inquiring so earnestly after 
him. Do not mind what the papers say. Kever 
mind what anyone says, if you are sure you are right. 
Papers, like people, will talk. You are here in this 
world. You will find out, gradually, how to use the 
things of this world without abusing them. It is the 
mad, hot pursuit of one thing that works so mucli 
mischief. It may be social pleasure, it may bo business 


CONFIDENCE. 


281 


success, it may be tlie satisfaction of one’s ambition. 
It really makes no difference wliat it is, the sin is in 
bolding fast to any thing transitory. And O, Mabel, 
when any one does literally believe in the things of 
eternity, when she does really draw near to God, a 
tight grasp on things of the world seems childish. 
They are ours to enjoy while we have them, but we 
shall not possess them always. I do not want to.” 

She put both arms around the young girl. Then 
she led the talk to other things. ’When Mabel left 
her it was in no frightened, somber frame of mind, 
but with a high courage and determination to be 
better, to do better, and to try to learn, day by day, 
the beauty of the One who is altogether lovely. 

There was an animated discussion at breakfast the 
next morning over the day’s programme. 

John was desirious of driving their guests through 
some of the beautiful lanes and shady country roads 
around Killian Hook. Phebe had planned a tea 
party, the invitations to be sent out that morn- 
ing, and her neighbors to gather informally as was 
their wont when one of their number had ‘‘ com- 
paiiy.” 

The drive for the morning was welcomed with ac- 
clamation by all but Mr. Swape. He sat bolt upriglit 
beside Phebe, for he had been promoted to the bish- 
op’s place, and he looked so red, so resolute, and so 
anxious that Miss Ewing turned smilingly to him 
and said : 


2S2 


PIIEDE. 


What bee is buzzing in your bonnet, Mr. Swape ? ” 
O, none, none at all. I’m all right.” He put 
his liand to his head. ‘‘ O, I understand. You mean 
what am I thinking about ? I’ll tell you. I want to 
take you on my yacht, to-day — dreadfully.” 

Beatrice opened her large, calm eyes in involuntaiy 
amazement. Hever liad he said to her, witli the 
remotest intimation of desire on his part, that lie 
would take her anywliere. Here he was, in look, 
manner, and speech, fairly besieging Phebe. 

“I am glad I gave him up,” she said, virtuously, to 
herself, “just as glad as I can be.” 

“ The wind is right to*day,” he continued, “ and 
it might blow sixes and sevens all the rest of the 
time we are here. It is a hot day, too, and we 
could keep so comfortable on the water. We could 
sail down to Hew York, around the bay, come up to 
the city for dinner at Delmonico’s or the Buckingham, 
and so back here in the evening.” 

“ That is not a bad programme,” said John, senten- 
tiously, “but — ” 

“ I know what you are going to say,” interrupted 
Mr. Swape, hastily. “ You are going to say that it looks 
like my taking the entertainment right out of your 
hands. I don’t mean it in that way. I only want 
Miss Ewing to have her sail when every thing is in 
trim. If you will just do me the favor,” he 
bowed so gallantly and solicitously to Phebe that 
Mabel, enjoying the humor of the situation, and 


CONFIDENCE. 


283 


tliinking to make matters easier still for Beatrice, 
clapped her hands and cried : 

“Do, please, dear Phebe, give the day to him. 
There will be time for two or three tea parties before 
we leave, and plenty of drives.” 

So the yachting party was decided upon. When 
Mabel and Beatrice went up-stairs togetiier to get 
ready, and Mabel tucked her hand in Beatrice’s arm, 
asking, “ Wasn’t I good to second Mr. Swape, so that 
Harry and you could coo all day together,” Beatrice 
drew away haughtily and replied : 

“ We do not require opportunities to be made for 
us to be together. Why should we not take them 
when we are engaged ? ” 

“ O ! ” and Mabel paused awkwardly. “ I thought 
you were afraid of wounding liim — and — I thought — 
too — dearie, that if our friend Matthew were taken 
up with Phebe — why — why he wouldn’t notice that 
Harry monopolizes you so — ” 

“ Mr. Swape is not hurtable. lie is a dried-up old 
bachelor. Harry says he is fifty ! I think it would 
look more suitable if he devoted himself to my aunt. 
Poor thing ! Miss Ewing is the only one who seems 
to think Mrs. Montgomery has any feeling.” 

“We do neglect her, Beatrice, that is a fact. I will 
pay her more attention. Cousin John looks after her, 
I am sure.” 

“ Yes, but just as if she were ninety. How would 
Mr. Swape enjoy being treated like a centenarian.” 


284 


PHEBE. 


“ Beatrice, darling, do you care because Mr. Swape 
is philandering around Phebe? I tliouglit you would 
be glad and so relieved — indeed I did ! ” 

“I am, truly,’’ said Beatrice, smiling and flushing 
at once. “ It is awkward — that is all. I started on 
his yacht, supposing — supposing — ” 

“ Yes, I know.” 

“ And I have made quite a point with Harry, in a 
delicate way, you know, of what I was relinquisliing 
for his sake. And here Mr. Swape has droj)ped me 
right before his eyes ! He will tease me till my 
dying day, and I can’t bear to be teased by Harry. I 
believe, too, Mabel, in a girl keeping all on her side 
she can. She has little enough then.” 

“ How, Beatrice, you are foolish. Every body 
knows Mr. Swape, and I will say every body did at 
last think that his choice had alighted on you. You 
have had triumph enough.” 

I know I am a silly girl, but I do not like to feel 
mortifled.” 

“ It will do you good. It does ns all good. How 
do you suppose I felt coming down from Hewport 
with nobody to pay me special attention. I was 
merely your appendage. I did not care, though. I 
had a nice time. I suppose I am queer, but I never 
want but one man to lose his heart over me, and he 
must be the one I shall — I would not be bothered 
with talking small talk to fifty in hopes of finding 
him.” 


CONFIDENCE. 


285 


Beatrice looked at lier. 

“ You are an awfully clever, sensible girl, Mabel, 
but I’m not. I would like nothing better than to have 
lifty around. Harry would be fifty times as devoted, 
too; and there lies a difference I see you can’t appre- 
ciate. However, I am determined to tell Mr. Swape, 
in the course of the day, that Harry and I are en- 
gaged. It may open his eyes to the fact tliat the 
field has not been all his own.” 

“ Dearie, his eyes are hermetically sealed, at pres- 
ent, to all but Phebe. Spare yourself the trouble and 
embarrassment.” 

“ It wont be a bit of trouble. Besides, it is my 
duty.” 

“ O, if you consider it in that light ! ” 

Mabel kissed Beatrice and ran off to her own room. 
Phebe came to her in great perplexity. 

‘‘ You must tell me what to wear, Mabel. Come, 
glance over my dresses. I haven’t any thing to com- 
pare with the marvelous costumes you and Miss Oly- 
phant arrived in. Jolm will feel so troubled if I look 
too different from the rest of you.” 

Mabel examined one after another of Pliebe's gowns 
with the eye of a connoisseur. 

‘‘ There isn’t any thing here that looks made for 
the occasion. It is nice, though, Phebe, that you are 
old enough not to have to dress exactly like a girl. It 
is a great convenience. Here is this dark blue dress. 
And what a satisfactory round hat ! only the feathers 


2S6 


riJEBE. 


must come off. It lias too much trimming on, any- 
way. If you do not mind, I will make it into some- 
thing fine in ten minutes.” 

“ Do ! ” said Phebe, imploringly. 

“ Give me the scissors and some pins, then.” 

She did as she was bid. Mabel sank on a stool, the 
large hat covering her knees, and she ripped and pinned 
and twisted and tied the ribbons until suddenly the 
hat assumed a marvelous look of finished elegance. She 
balanced it on her hand, holding it at arm’s-length, 
regarded it quizzically, then, handing it to Phebe, said, 
“ Try it on.” 

Mabel stood with arms a-kimbo examining the effect. 
It is ravishing. You are perfectly irresistible, Phebe, 
ill that hat. Alas, poor Matthew 1 ” 

When they gathered at the pier an hour later Phebe 
said to Mr. Swape with great sweetness: 

‘‘ Perhaps you would like to take Eishop Martineau 
on. lie is stopping with the Croftons, at Beech- 
hurst, a mile farther down. lie is at Killian Hook 
for rest and change of air, and the sail might do him 
good.” 

Mr. Swape settled into a resistant attitude, looked at 
Miss Ewing with blushing eyes, hesitated and said, 
He wouldn’t enjoy it.” 

“ The bishop is a good sailor,” said John, his black 
eyes twinkling at Mabel. ‘‘He has literally traveled 
all seas.” 

“ Then I am sure this small expedition would sim- 


CONFIDENCE. 


287 


ply bore liim. It is ratlier late, anyway, for a lirst- 
rate start, 1 liave the most profound respect for 
Bishop Martineau, Miss Ewing.” 

“A little afraid of him, eh?” and John regarded 
Mr. Swape with provoking coolness. 

“That’s it! That’s it! He might be a damper, 
don’t you know.” 

Phebe’s eyes expanded. There was a quiver of con- 
tradiction through her fine figure. She saich simply 
and ingenuously, “I dare say he would find the day a 
dull one,” and, giving her hand to the owner of the 
Notiis, who had been waiting to assist her on board, 
she followed the others. 

Every body came under the infiuence of the fine 
weather and their host’s genuine and unbounded hos- 
pitality. The awnings made a delightful shelter from 
the hot sun. The easy-chairs were drawn in a 
semicircle around a table generously supplied with 
refreshments. The party sat facing the south, enjoy- 
ing the familiar scene. There were beautiful country 
homes, and farther on islands dotting the East River, 
Avhich they entered after a short sail. Gradually the 
higher land to the right appeared, with its motley array 
of public buildings and occasionally an old colonial 
homestead resolutely defying encroachment and 
decay. The maze of shipping and motley river-craft 
made soft, irregular sky-lines in the far distance. The 
twin cities piling up in ever and ever increasing 
densi ty drew 1 brmidably near. Ai ry spires soared high 


288 


PUEBE. 


above the prosaic masses of brick and stone. The 
majestic and symmetrical bridge spanned the chasm 
from Brooklyn to New York as if suspended from 
iieaven. The curve in the East Biver toward the bay 
was reached, and soon they came in sight of the 
matchless loveliness of the New Jersey shore, the 
woody undulations of Staten Island, and the peace- 
ful, rural plenty and thrift of Long Island as it 
stretclied seaward, extending a welcoming smile to 
other islands, to the statue of Liberty apparently not 
yet nationalized, and to that narrow opening admitting 
on one hand to the boundless ocean and on the other 
to the wealth and beauty of the Hudson and the 
Great Lakes. 

They had made the circuit of the harbor, touching 
at Governor’s Island, where they had spent an hour 
under the old trees and in visiting the fort. They 
had entered the Hudson with the intention of steam- 
-ing just beyond the Palisades and back before going 
on shore for the elaborate dinner Mr. Swape insisted 
upon, when Beatrice, seeing her disappearing suitor 
alone for the first time that day, Phebe having with- 
drawn to one of the cabins for a nap, left Harry and 
took the chair which Miss Ewing had vacated. 

Mr. Swape looked up, smiled good-naturedly and 
absent-mindedly, made a remark on the magnitude 
and cost of the shipping spread before them, and re- 
lapsed into profound meditation. 

Beatrice tried all her usual and indolent ways of at- 


CONFIDENCE. 


289 


tracting liis attention. She quoted Mr. Birdsall. She 
too became motionless and dreamy. It apparently 
made no difference to Matthew Swape whether she 
talked or not. She drew her chair beside the rail at 
length, and, leaning her face in the palm of her hand 
very pensively, she said gently : 

‘‘ Mr. Swape.” 

Her companion started. “ Did you speak ? ” 

“How absent-minded yon are. Yes, I spoke” — - 
all this with the most purring suavity. 

“ What is it ? ” 

He pulled himself together, adjusted his waistcoat 
and eye-glasses, and finally really did gaze steadfastly 
at Beatrice. 

“ You and I have always been the best qf friends, 
haven’t we ? ” 

“ Yes, the very best of f riends. O yes, of course ! ” 

She pouted a little inadvertently. “ We are such 
old friends that I feel as if I ought to share a secret 
I have with you and a few others.” 

His blue eyes showed a trifling interest. Beatrice 
watched in vain for signs of jealousy. They were 
simply very attentive eyes. 

Mr. Birdsall ” — a long pause. 

‘‘ It is about Mr. Birdsall, is it ? I did not like him 
over well at one time — too much polo and that sort 
of thing about him to suit me altogether. Too swell- 
ing an air for a man who has his way to make. I 

have rather changed my mind, though. He’s first- 
19 


200 


PEEBE. 


rate — a capital fellow. And lie tells me lie settles 
down in earnest in the winter. A man must make 
his money while he’s young — at least before he knows 
what age is. I did.” 

“ You are not so very, very old, are you ? ” 

‘‘ Humph ! Hot old at all. Haven’t thought of 
being old yet.” 

^AVell, I am very glad you like Harry. I — I do 
too. Mr. Birdsall and I are engaged to be married, 
Mr. Swape.” 

‘‘ You don’t say so ! Birdsall certainly couldn’t do 
better. I guess you have made a wise choice, too. I 
hope so. Handsome fellow, no mistake.” 

He held out his hand in genuine, unmistakable 
sympathy, and, while shaking Beatrice up and down, 
said with the heartiest sincerity, “ I congratulate j^ou, 
indeed I do.” 

At this juncture Phebe appeared in the hatchway. 

“ There is Miss Ewing ! Did you ever see such a 
beauty, Miss Olyphant? I never did ! ” 

He sprang from his chair, hauled another beside 
his own, and stood all smiles and admiration until this 
rising star had satisfactorily adjusted herself. 

‘‘ Don’t leave. Miss Olyphant,” Phebe said, a trifle 
imploringly, as Beatrice haughtily turned away. ‘‘ I 
hope I did not interrupt a conversation.” 

“ O no,” said Mr. Swape, energetically. “ AYe had 
just finished, hadn’t we ? ” and he nodded so know- 
ingly and reassuringly at Beatrice that she could not 


CONFIDENCE. 


291 


help smiling assent to Pliebe and recovering her good 
common sense at the same time. 

If Mr. Swape did not need her Ilarrj did, and at 
this juncture he appeared, holding his hat on, for the 
breeze was stiffening. He drew her arm within liis 
own and proudly walked away with her, and Mr. Swape 
turning to Pliebe, said, ‘‘They have just become en- 
gaged. Hice-looking couple, don’t you think so ? ” 

She mirthfully assented, for Mabel, too, had given 
her the history of this Jason’s search after golden fleece 
in the shape of a wife, and she knew by the cracker 
king’s tones that Beatrice, after all, had not proved ir- 
resistible. 

As soon as Harry and his afiianced were out of sight 
he asked, a little anxiously, “ Have you told him 'i ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ How did he take it ? ” 

“ I suppose he feels pretty badly.” 

“ Be as kind as you can, dearest ; if you show him 
a little special consideration I will understand, under 
the circumstances. I wonder^ though, that Swape 
could think for a second that he had any chance 
with a girl like ^mu.” 

As the evening advanced, and when they were on 
board once more, retracing their way up the East Pi ver 
and over the entrance to the beautiful Sound, the 
young girls and Harry sang while the others listened 
or indulged in reveries. 

Mr. Swape thought of Phebe ; but her dreams were 


292 


rilEBE. 


of a summer morning in cliurcli, of tilings Bishop 
Martineau had said to her ; before her all the time was 
his picture as he read the Bible aloud to them in her 
parlor ; ringing in her ears were the rich tones of his 
full and measured voice in prayer. 

John stood leaning against the cabin as the yacht 
sailed smoothly on. Now that he had the opportunity, 
he was glad to yield to seriousness. Mabel’s clear 
contralto touched a tender chord in his heart. lie 
admired her firm, practical, and healthful nature. “ She 
is a clever, nice girl through and through,” he said to 
himself. “ You know where to find her every single 
time, and that is what I like above all thiniz-s in a 
girl.” 

As for Mabel, though singing and enjoying her 
singing as much as her listeners, she stole many a 
glance at John, and thought, as any one else might 
have thought with but one glimpse at his fine face and 
vigorous frame, that he was a cousin well worth hav- 
ing. “ What a splendid lover he would make for any 
girl lucky enough to win his regard ! ” Just while this 
last fancy was lurking in her mind John came over 
to where she was, and, sitting down beside her, said : 

“ I could enjoy hearing you sing forever, Mabel.” 

“Yes, John?” 

V For once she had altogether forgotten to call him 


cousin. 


CONCLUSIONS. 


293 


CHAPTER X. ‘ 

coNciiUsiowa. 

It was midnight before the yachting party were 
ready to separate. John and Phebe lingered in the 
sitting-room after the others had gone up-stairs. 

It had grown cooler before they had landed, and 
the blazing fire with which Sophia had welcomed 
them held them together with the magic of its charm. 
Story-telling and repartee had kept each in a happy 
mood until slumber, surprising Mr. Swape, gave them 
all the signal for separation. 

Xow that the brother and sister were quite alone 
they drew an old-fashioned settee before the hearth, 
and, sitting down together, Phebe laid her head on 
John’s shoulder with a delightful sense of security and 
protection. 

“ Xow that you are back, John, dear, I wonder how 
I got along without you. Sophia used to be afraid 
nights. She was always prowling around. I never 
felt nervous or timid, but since you are really here 
the very idea of living again in this old house without 
you scares me. I suppose I braced myself to the inev- 
itable while you were away. Isn’t it delightful to have 
the house full of people ? I like to think of some one 
in each of those rooms that have been empty so long.” 


294 


PIIEBE. 


He gave her a hearty squeeze. Ilis own hospitable, 
genial nature afforded him some conception of the 
strain Pliebe must have really been under. 

“ You shall never be left alone again, Phebe, never, 
as long as I am John Ewing. If I go to the north 
pole, there you go too.” 

She nestled more closely. There was a long, satis- 
factory silence, broken only by John thrusting a hick- 
ory stick farther into the fire with his foot. The fiamcs 
spurted up. The whole room glowed w’armly in the 
dancing lights and shadows. 

“ I wish you would not sleep down-stairs in grand- 
mother’s room, John. It is the oidy chamber in the 
house I don’t like — so shady, and the windows open- 
ing on the pines. Those trees whisper and talk so at 
night. When Mabel goes wont you come up-stairs ? ” 

“ We’ll see. But I like that room and he nodded 
toward his door, which stood slightly ajar. “ It ought 
to be a very safe room if grandmother’s peaceful 
presence hovers anywhere near it.” 

“ It doesn’t, I know it doesn’t ; ” and Phebe sat up. 
‘‘ I am sure spirits go far, far away when they leave 
this human existence. I am convinced that they have 
a large, real, new life of their own which absorbs 
them ; they are not in our life here any more than we 
are in their life there. There is a great separation.” 

He looked at his sister in astonishment. She was 
excited, a thing so rare for her that his attention was 
deeply arrested. 


CONCLUSIONS. 


296 


“ Aren’t you well, Pliebe ? ” 

She smiled, hruslied her hair back as if perplexed, 
and said, “ O yes, I simply do not feel right about 
that room. She gazed with a strained expression at 
the partly open door. 

lie rose, drew her to her feet beside him, put his 
arm around her, and walked with her to the hall, up 
the stairs to her own chamber. 

“ Go to bed, Phebe, dear, and forget yourself. We 
are safe enough. I’ll sleep with one eye open as long 
as I am in that room, and will challenge any ghost, 
dead or alive.” 

She laughed, put her arms around his neck, kissed 
him, and would have watched him go back to the 
sitting-room, but he said, 

‘‘ I shall not stir till I hear your key turn.” 

When he reached the hearth again he had a 
very different look on his face than when he left 
it ; for his acute hearing had detected a faint noise 
in the adjoining room that had escaped Phebe’s. He 
was not a cowardly man, but he was a cautious one. 
He did not wish to rouse the other men for what 
might prove a mere fancy. Besides, he did not know 
how they would act in an emergency. 

The first thing he did was to shut the door into his 
chamber. That closed communication with the rest 
of the house. There was no lock, an oversight for 
which he now reproached himself. He then moved 
quietly about the sitting-room, examining the win- 


296 


PIIEBE. 


(lows, drawing the curtains, and closing and secnr- 
ino: the two remaining doors. Tlien he covered the 
fire, withdrew to a large arm-chair altogether out of 
range of the door leading to the chamber, adjusted a 
lamp for the night, and sat down to watch. 

It was not an easy task for the strongest nerves, 
for he had a conviction that if any body were in the 
next room it was Petrovsky, whose vast strength he 
had already witnessed, as well as the capacity for evil 
in those strange, luminous eyes. 

Phebe had told him of Petrovsky’s abnormal power 
to see ill the dark. John was determined to place 
himself at the utmost advantage, as he had no such 
capacity. The only weapon he had was a pistol, but 
with this he was an expert. However, his plan was 
to match Petrovsky in mere physical strength if an 
encounter became necessary. 

The hours wore away. He began to think he had 
indulged a fancy or that Phebe’s apprehension had 
made him the victim of a delusion. Four o’clock 
came. He was sitting with half-closed eyes fixed on 
the door, when he saw it slowly open. Kising noise- 
lessly, and immediately wide awake, he drew still fur- 
ther out of sight. 

There was a long interval of silence, the door re- 
maining on a crack. Finally, without a sound, it 
opened wide and Petrovsky stepped boldly for- 
ward. 

John’s attitude, his height, the determination and 


CONCLUSIONS. 


297 


fire in liis inflexible black eyes, and the extended pis- 
tol, had temporarily the effect of an apparition on the 
Russian. Ilis dark skin turned a livid yellow, liis 
dilated eyes quailed. Then, as quickly recovering him- 
self, with an invective uttered in a groan and snarl at 
once, he sprang at his opponent, making a desperate 
effort to clutch John by the throat. The movement 
was so sudden that his opponent was momentarily off 
guard enough to fail to fire. John evaded the sinewy, 
knotted hand, however, and, springing aside, turned, 
winding his strong arm around Petrovsky’s neck. 
Then followed a singularly noiseless and desperate 
effort on the part of each for mastery. 

Petrovsky knew that his liberty was at stake, and 
John knew nothing for the time being but that he 
had never been seriously defeated in his life and that 
he did not intend to be this time. At last, and just 
as his strength was beginning to fail, with a desperate 
lurch and thrust in the breast he threw the Russian 
face foremost. 

At this moment the hall door softly opened. A 
sputtering candle appeared, followed by Mr. Swape 
himself in a long flannel gown. 

“ Goodness gracious, Ewing, what’s up ! ” 

“ You are in the nick of time, Swape. A burglar, 
or something of the sort. He is senseless just now. 
Go out to the kitchen — there, to your left ; you will 
find a good strong piece of rope on the fioor in the 
corner closet. Quick ! ” 


29S 


PUEDE. 


Matthew Swape was in his element. This was in- 
deed worth coming to Ewing Farm for, even with Miss 
Ewing out of the question. What a lucky accident 
it was that the ice-water for Ids room had been forgot- 
ten and he had come down-stairs in search of a drink. 
He returned from the kitchen almost immediately. 

John smiled approvingly as he saw the dexterity 
with which the rope was uncoiled. Mr. Swape 
immediately began to knot it about Petrovsky’s 
wrists. 

Yon will tie him so that he can’t stir. You will 
make a perfect mummy of him.” 

“ What I intend to do — fasten him together, hand 
and foot; wind him round and round. Treat him 
like so many crackers for foreign shipment. If I 
can’t guarantee him properly boxed I’ll be able to 
warrant him securely tied.” And Matthew Swape, 
kneeling beside the still senseless intruder, knotted 
the rope here and knotted it there, until all John 
could think of was the Lilliputians securing Gulliver. 

“ He is fast ! ” said John, as the owner of the Wotus 
used the last yard of rope. “ Are you afraid to stay 
alone with him for fifteen minutes ? ” 

“ Afraid ! Who ever saw Matthew Swape afraid ? ” 
and he stood astride the Pussian, his feet encased in a 
pair of slippers that Beatrice had embroidered, his 
fiannel wrapper concealing his thin figure, his blue 
eyes more prominent than ever and dancing with ex- 
citement. 


CONCLUSION’S. 


299 


“ Then I will go out to the stable and fasten the liorses 
to a light wagon, and you and I between us will con- 
vey this cargo into Killian Hook for custody till the 
State can take final charge of it. And see here, 
Swape, we may as well keep still about this whole 
matter before the ladies. We can get back in time 
to escape every body but Sophia, and as she is equal 
to two ordinary men it wont do any harm to tell 
her.” 

“Mum is the word, Mr. Ewing. You had better 
hurry up. The fellow looks as if he were coming 
to. But I’ll be equal to him.” 

Breakfast was somewhat delayed that morning. 
Sophia was so profuse in her apologies, and Beatrice 
so glad to have a little more time for dressing, that 
Phebe, although punctilious in the matter of having 
meals served promptly, let the fault pass without 
comment. 

Every body was so unprecedentedly hungry ! Mr. 
Swape declared that his capacity was simply limitless. 
John ate so heartily and contrived also to talk so in- 
cessantly that the two men, with their appetites and 
gayety combined, monopolized the attention. 

Phebe lingered in the dining-room a few minutes 
to give necessary orders after the others had left. 
John came back there presently to inquire how she 
had slept. 

“ O, delightfully ! I did not open my eyes from 
the time my head touched the pillow till broad day- 


800 


PHEBE. 


I was awfully tired last nifflit, Jolin. Wasn’t 
iVoolisli?” 

“ I knew tliat all you wanted was a good night’s 
sleep. What is the programme arranged for to- 
day ? ” 

She stepped close to her brother. “ I want you to 
take Mabel for a long drive in the phaeton this morn- 
ing, please, for my sake. Miss Olyphant has Mr. 
Birdsall, and Mr. Swape, as you perceive, is devoted 
to me. Mrs. Montgomery expects to keep her room 
to-day. Poor Mabel, you perceive, is quite left out 
in the cold. You wont mind giving her your morn- 
ing, will you ? ” 

“I guess I shall not find it so very hard. Any 
thing to please you, Phebe. We had better start as 
soon as possible, if we are going ; don’t you think so ? 
It gets so hot later.” . 

“Yes. I would go right away.” She turned to the 
silver-drawer and opened it to conceal a smile that 
threatened to disturb her expression of serene ingenu- 
ousness. 

When John had saufitered off toward Mabel, with 
a fine air of good nature and benevolence combined, 
Phebe summoned Michael, and, adjuring him to make 
liimself look as much like a coachman as possible, 
she bade him bring the two-seated carriage to the 
door at ten to take Miss Olyphant and Mr. Bird- 
sall to make calls, for Beatrice had discovered that 
several of her New York friends were summering 


CONCLUSIONS. 


301 


at Killian Hook. ‘‘And see here, Michael, to be a 
true coachman there are two thing’s you must not 
forget.” 

Michael nodded and inquired, “Indade, Miss Ew- 
ing, what air they, thin ?” 

“ You must hold your whip as straight as a liberty 
pole ” — Phebe grasped a fork — “ so ! And you must 
not turn your head right or left when you are stand- 
ing before a lady’s door. Look as if you hadn’t an 
idea, and you will be all right.” 

“It is that last thing I am raal diver at, ma’am. 
As for the first. I’ll try my level best. Like the 
statue of Liberty, I suppose. Miss Ewing, with me 
arm a trifle less ilevtited ? The leddy, thin, I take it, 
is used to outriders.” 

“ She is accustomed to a great deal of ceremony, 
and we must take as good care of her as we can. I 
depend on you, Michael, to acquit yourself respect- 
ably.” 

“You sha’n’t be disapp’inted. Miss Ewing. I’ve 
observed the ways of the furriners, ef I was born and 
brought up in Ireland. These city folks is changing 
the whole look of Killian Hook.” 

“ Kever mind further observations. Go, do as I 
bid you.” 

With this plan completed, Phebe, a little later, sat 
down beside Mr. Swape, who was buried in the morn- 
ing paper. Kcws, stocks, the outside world were ob- 
literated instantly. 


302 


FJIEBE. 


“ Will you not accompany me for a walk over the 
farm, Mr. Swape ? ” 

His face became radiant. The paper dropped on 
the floor. 

“ Shall we go immediately ? ” 

Yes, certainly. What are you raising this sea- 
son?” 

‘‘ O, a little of every thing. I am in great per- 
plexity, too, just now, for my several varieties of 
sweet corn are ripening all at once, and I intended 
them to come on one after the other. You should 
see my potatoes, though, especially the ‘ Beauty of 
Hebron.’ ” 

An}" potato-bugs ? ” 

‘‘Hot one this year. What I especially wish to 
show you is a field of flax. I am trying to revive an 
ancient custom, I presume. I have a really wonder- 
ful linen-closet, Mr. Swape, and when I look over the 
stacks of fine linen, the flax for which was actually 
raised and spun on this dear old farm, I have often 
thought I would like to add a little to it from my own 
planting. So this year I had a small piece of land 
prepared and sown with flax-seed, and the crop prom- 
ises to be excellent. Our soil is especially adapted 
to it— sandy and loamy. I was late with the planting, 
and my field is only in flower now. I am sure you 
will think it is worth seeing.” 

They crossed the lawn while Phebe talked. She 
had a white dress on ; its low embroidered collar, fall- 


CONCLUSIONS. 


303 


iiig awa}^ from lier pretty throat, was fastened with a 
knot of soft blue ribbon. The liat tliat Mabel had so 
dexterously trimmed shaded her ej^es, and she walked 
along the narrow path leading through the fields with 
the quick, free step of a woman much in the open 
air. Her liands were ungloved, and they were brown 
and, as Mabel had told Beatrice, somewhat freckled. 
But they were shapely, magnetic hands, whose cool, 
firm touch- had often seeuied to carry healing to 
the sick. 

Mr. Swape felt more like a boy thim he had in years. 
A strange, far-off, and yet natural sensation filled his 
heart. He fancied himself ao:aiii amonc: the swellinc: 

O o 

uplands, of western Hew York. He saw once more 
the glint of those beautiful, sparkling lakes. He was 
mowing, as in those old, old times, his scythe swinging 
joyously as he strode through the wheat. How ho 
W'as riding atop a load of fragrant hay. And yet all 
the while he was keenly mindful that these things for 
him belonged to a far-away past ; but the spirit of that 
past rested on him. A quail on a fence near by, with 
its mottled breast and slender throat, touched his con- 
ception of the beautiful more than a bird of paradise 
could have done. The indistinct whirr of myriad 
grasshoppers was sweeter than the melodies of Bee- 
thoven. He was indeed a rich, a very rich man, but 
in some way a blessedness of simple enjoyment which 
was his while he was poor in purse and poor in spirit 
haunted the beauty of this summer morning. Was it 


S04 


PEEBE. 


Ewing Farm, or the mistress of Ewing Farm, or merely 
her simple account of the flax-field that had made his 
whole nature as guileless for the time being as it was 
in those distant, vanished years ? lie did not know, 
he did not care. He was no analyst. lie seldom 
thought of the past. He avoided the future. He 
knew that this morning he was happy in the most 
genuine, unsophisticated way. 

At length they reached the flax-field. Its delicate 
blue flowers were like a piece of the sky. The sky 
and the flowers and the Sound were all of the same 
matchless hue. 

Phebe walked a little way into the flax, so that Mr. 
Swape could see how thick and straight and luxuriant 
it was. The slender plants, with their narrow leaves 
and ethereal blossoms, made an exquisite border to her 
white dress, and reflected pr gathered added purity 
from her beautiful, radiant face. 

Mr. Swape, without search, without further watch- 
fulness of himself to know if he were in love, without 
a single w’orldly, sordid reflection as to whether Phebe 
was a suitable woman or whether she was not, to be 
the wife of his millions, his houses, his yacht, went 
down into the most ultra humiliation of unqualified 
adoration, and for the first time in his prosaic, prac- 
tical life faced the now tremendous question, not of 
whether he would select this woman, but whether she 
would deign to accept him. 

To want a thing with him had always been to have 


CONCLUSIONS. 


305 


it. Out of sheer inexperience of what delay on liis 
part meant, either as a losing or a saving power, wdien 
he realized, or, ratlier, discovered, his frame of mind, 
without preface, without circumlocution, in few words, 
and with no poetry of language, but with true poetry 
of feeling, he asked Phebe to be his wife. 

If she had been a Greek, and Jupiter had suddenly 
spoken to her with thunder out of a clear sky, or if 
she had been Psyche, after loving Cupid, and that god 
had re-appeared, she could not have been more aston- 
ished ; for in some way, although she had known the 
history of this man’s search for a wife through the 
lengtli and breadtli of society, there was something in 
the very tones of liis voice, in the look of his eye, that 
told her her refusal would hurt. 

She knew how to answer him so gently and so 
wisely that often after, when he had accepted his 
bachelordom with the philosophical cheerfulness char- 
acteristic of his nature, he wondered why he had al- 
ways seemed more of a man to himself than he had 
ever done before. 

Phebe led her guest after this episode to one or two 
more points of observation near by ; then, feeling very 
much shaken up herself, and suddenly falling short of 
topics of conversation, she said : 

“ If you can find your way back to the house alone, 
Mr. Swape, I will go a little further oil for a talk with 
my farmer. I notice that the early apples are ripen- 
ing very fast.” 

20 


306 


PHEBE. 


He took off liis liat, bowed a little awkwardly, but 
with such deep kindness of manner that, altliough she 
turned away with a smiling good-by, she all at once 
found her eyes full of tears. 

When she came upon Simeon Beetles, industriously 
picking corn for market, it struck her as not worth 
while to interrupt his plodding, and, after watching 
him tear the full ears from tlieir rustling stalks and 
noting how the wind nodded the long green leaves of 
the tall ranks, she spoke a few approving words to 
the good old man and wandered with a certain irreso- 
lution to the farthest extremity of her ninety acres. 
Here was a field famous for its poor soil, and of late 
Phebe had given it over to Mother Hature ; she had 
spread a glorious mantle of daisies down the slope, 
and here and there the white petals were interspersed 
with long spraj^s of golden-rod in fiower, true harbin- 
gers of the autumn. A thick growth of wild parsley 
shot up a wealth of beautiful blossoms along the 
fence. Bed clover glimmered in rosy patches near 
the water. 

Phebe sat down under the shade of a venerable oak 
whose gnarled, wide-spreading branches had always 
been a landmark. She looked out over the sparkling 
Sound. An occasional white-cap diversified its azure 
depths. It was one of those rare intervals when there 
was not a sail visible. The opposite shores were far 
enough away to seem unpeopled. "Where she sat there 
was not a house in sight — “ only stillness far and wide.” 


CONCLUSIONS. 


807 


Slie felt the deliciousness of her solitude, that unde- 
finahle peace which is the gift of fine health, a pure 
heart, and an intelligent mind. She sat there a long 
time with a singular freedom from care. Every thing 
was arranged for the day. Every body was sufficiently 
occupied. She was free to linger an hour if she 
chose. 

She took off her hat, the shade was so deep. She 
looked a long time far out to sea. When her eyes 
sought the land again they rested on a tall, robust fig- 
ure just visible around a bend in the sliore. She 
recognized Bishop Martineau at once. She impul- 
sively waved her hat at him. He saw the signal, 
and perceptibly quickened his steps as he ascended 
the slope, picking a few daisies as he came. When 
he reached her he handed her the flowers, a slight 
glow on his face, in his eyes, his manner, which was 
more reticent than usual. 

Now that she had brought him to her she was as 
destitute of any thing to say as she had been witli 
Simeon Beetles, but with a difference which the bishop 
in his own way and time found an opportunity of in- 
terpreting in his favor. 

When, a whole hour later, they at length reluctantly 
turned away from that goodly sweep of water and 
from the friendly shade of the old oak, and took tlie 
path through the fields to the house, it was to meet 
John half way. He had returned from his drive and 
had come in search of his sister. 


808 


PEEBE. 


He walked beside her somewhat defiantly. A 
few rods farther on, and after certain revelations, 
he said, rather stiffly, “We will shake hands over it, 
Bishop Martineaii, although it has taken me rather 
suddenly.” 

When he was . alone with his sister, liowever, he 
whispered, “I shall console myself with Mabel if 
she is willing to say John always instead of Cousin 
J ohn.” 




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